


The Second American Civil War

by jenga



Category: Pod Save America (RPF), Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - War, Established Relationship, Fisting, Gets Turned On By Danger: A Biography of Jon Favreau - Revolutionary, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Road Head, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenga/pseuds/jenga
Summary: They blinked, and the country was at war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in the slack in early February 2017, during the height of our collective fatalism. More chapters to come. Several elements in upcoming chapters are stolen shamelessly from the coven - thanks, team.
> 
> This should go without saying, but No Breaking the Fourth Wall. Keep it secret, keep it safe.

They all blustered about it, of course.  On the pod, in their living rooms, on Twitter.  Lovett got in the habit of ranting to complete strangers in line at the taco trucks near the office.  The hyperbole flowed from all corners of the Internet – President Donald J. Trump, dismantling the institutions of government, creating chaos, threatening the very foundation of their democracy.

It would have chilled their blood to know how quickly it would all actually happen.

The Muslim ban.  The Monday Night Massacre.  The US Marshals refusing to enforce the court order at LAX, leading to Jerry Brown activating the California Guard.  And then the Marines were sent in.  They blinked, and the country was at war.

At least, thank fucking god, Jon and Lovett had both been in California right before all cross-country flights stopped.  It’s been almost two years since they’ve seen Tommy or Dan.

 

* * *

 

Some days, when the horror of the new reality recedes a little and he has a moment to think and reflect...some days, Jon thinks Lovett is mostly annoyed that the revolution is based in _Portland_ , of all places.  It’s just so fucking predictable.

“I mean, way to just feed into every cliché about who’s fighting in this war,” he grumbles to Jon as they walk back to the makeshift compound, rifles strapped to their backs and duffel bags stuffed with fresh maps from the Idaho brigade.  “We could’ve at least tried to set up HQ somewhere inland.  What’s wrong with Denver?  Or Albuquerque?”

Jon snorts.  “In some other universe, it’s February in Denver and you’re bitching my ear off about the cold and snow.”

Lovett hoists his rifle higher on his shoulder and rolls his eyes.  “In some other universe, it’s February in Los Angeles and I’m complaining to you about President Hillary Clinton’s lackluster State of the Union address.”

Jon looks out at the grey sky over the Willamette River.  “Yeah,” he says quietly.  “Those assholes probably don’t even know how good they have it.”  He feels a brief flash of contempt for those other, more naive versions of themselves.  They probably had several friends over to watch the speech, with a hefty supply of quality craft beer and homemade guacamole.  Treating politics like the party they once imagined it was - something to play with, and enjoy, and mock.

They nod at the guys at the checkpoint, making their way straight to the main conference room where the governors are gathered.  It’s rare all three are in one place these days - Kate Brown and Jerry Brown are often at their eastern borders, while Jay Inslee has been leading the vanguard through Idaho into Montana.  His return to the coast could only mean something very good - or something calamitously bad.

The room is packed.  The Washington revolutionaries seem larger than the rest - wrapped in thick winter clothes and carrying sturdier weapons and equipment, they take up more room than their southern compatriots.  Jon hoists his own rifle a little higher, and tries not to feel intimidated by the new arrivals.  Very few of these people were soldiers two years ago, he reminds himself.  Lawyers, techies, students - behind the heavy stares and clenched jaws, in fact, most are younger than he is.

“Are you sure?”  Kate Brown is asking as they walk in.  Jay Inslee nods, a small smile on his face.  Kate breaks out in a grin and looks around, noticing the two of them.

“Favreau, Lovett!” she calls, gesturing them over.  “You’ve met Governor Inslee, I believe?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lovett says, sticking out his hand to shake.  “Welcome back to the coastal bubble, sir.”

Inslee grins.  “Good to be back.  And I’m happy to say I bring some good news.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, looking over at the other two governors.  They both look happier than they have in weeks.  

“We’ve made contact with the President,” Inslee tells them.  Jon feels the air go out of his lungs.  No one here calls Trump “the President.”  Inslee can only mean one person.

“Wha- really?”  Lovett asks, standing up straighter.  “You’ve spoken with him?”

“Not directly,” Inslee says.  “But he sent Jarrett.”

Lovett lets out a slightly hysterical laugh.  “Oh, my god.  She’s okay?  They’re okay?”  Jon lifts a shaky hand to his face, resisting the urge to wrap an arm around Lovett’s shoulders and pull him in tight.

“They’re alive,” Kate Brown says, although of course they already knew that.  Even when communication had been severed following the Secession of the West, a steady stream of news had still made its way across battle lines and de facto boundaries.  They heard enough to know that the President had managed to hold Chicago long enough for the Pennsylvania forces to send reinforcements.  Every new arrival from the East carried fresh news of his progress - Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado.  

“He’s stuck,” Jerry Brown says bluntly.  “They’ve either got to go through the Utah Guard or the Wyoming militias.”

“He’s got to go through Wyoming,” Inslee says.  “We’ve got a path through Montana, and Canada can provide air support.”

Danielle, one of Jerry Brown’s aides, shakes her head.  “Utah’s faster.  We’re trying to open a road between the east and west - it should be as straight and short as possible.”

“The Guard is much better supplied,” Jon points out.  “Plus, they should avoid Bundy territory if at all possible.”  He spares a second of gratitude that the hardcore survivalists were pushed out of Oregon in the early days of the revolution.

Lovett hums in agreement.  “Tell him to come north.  We’re also hearing from our guys in Idaho they may be able to provide a road across.”

The three governors exchange a look, before Inslee nods quickly.  “North.  We’ll move into Wyoming and meet him partway.”

Kate Brown lets out a breath.  “How many people will you need?”

Inslee looks at the collection of tired, pale faces in the room.  “How many can you spare?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Jon says to Lovett as they raid the old REI store for winter clothes.  “You wanted to go to Colorado.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Lovett laughs, pulling on a bright orange parka.  Jon, feeling lighter than he has in months, grabs Lovett by the collar and pulls him in and presses a kiss to his smiling mouth.

“Take that off, you look ridiculous,” he grins, pulling back.

“If you insist,” Lovett says, letting the parka drop from his shoulders.

Jon lets the moment sit, running his eyes up and down Lovett’s frame.  “I also hate that shirt.”

Lovett tugs it over his head in one swift motion.  “I bet you really don’t like these pants,” he suggests, his fingers playing with the button of his jeans.

Jon sucks in a breath, stepping in close.  “Not my favorite,” he says, running a hand down Lovett’s smooth back before reaching into the back of his jeans and squeezing.  Lovett groans low, pressing his growing erection against Jon’s hip.  

“C’mere,” Jon says, pulling Lovett along with him until he reaches the camping section.  “Get in,” he says, pressing down between Lovett’s shoulder blades.  

When they’re both in the tent, Jon zips them in.  Lovett snorts, toeing off his shoes.  “A bit unnecessary, don’t you think?  No one else is here.”

Jon strips off his sweater and shirt before crowding over Lovett, pushing him onto his back.  “How about this,” he murmurs, crouching over Lovett on all fours.  “How about if we’re not in an REI store?  What if we just decided to take an impromptu trip to Joshua Tree?”

“What if you shut up and fuck me?”  Lovett says as he presses up, but Jon stays just out of reach.  

“C’mon,” Jon says, giving in and grinding down - once, twice.  Then he lifts away before Lovett can get a rhythm, relishing the frustrated noise that escapes Lovett’s throat.  “C’mon,” he repeats, “play along.”

“Fine, fine, we went camping this weekend,” Lovett says, running his hands up over Jon’s shoulders, trying to pull him down.  “You made me go hiking and I complained the whole time.”

Jon presses down, rewarding Lovett.  “I had to hide your phone so you’d stay off Twitter.”

“Like there’s good reception out on the trail,” Lovett says, sucking a mark under Jon’s jaw.

Jon shifts his legs so that he’s bracketed by Lovett’s thighs.  They’re grinding together now, still separated by their jeans, just on the right side of uncomfortable.  “We got back to the tent as the sun was going down, and I just pulled you into the tent and climbed on top of you, like this.”

Lovett wraps his legs around Jon’s hips, pulling him closer in.  “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, pressing down.  “You were tired from the hike - happy to just lay there and let me do whatever I wanted to you.”  Lovett chokes out a gasp, his hips tightening around Jon.

Jon slips a hand between them, pushing both their pants down far enough to take them both in hand.  Their words fade as he grips their cocks together, but he keeps the fantasy in his head.  Just for this moment, in the unnatural green tint cast by the nylon of the tent, he can imagine they’re still sneaking around together because they didn’t want to tell anyone yet.  Back in another life, when they had the time to be concerned about things like Tommy finding out.

He moves more insistently, enjoying the feeling of Lovett underneath him, the way he seems to lose his voice as the flush races up his throat and face.  “God, you feel…”

“Fuck,” Lovett says through clenched teeth, gripping Jon’s back and dipping his head back.  Jon fixes his mouth to Lovett’s throat and sucks in time with the twists of his wrist.  “Jesus, Jon…”

Jon hums against Lovett’s skin, moving his hand faster.  “Come on, come on, it’s okay…” he says, and suddenly Lovett is coming with a shout.  Jon keeps his hand clenched tight around them both, enjoying Lovett’s whimpers as Jon continues to grind against Lovett’s oversensitive cock.  A moment later he’s coming, spilling over his fingers onto Lovett’s stomach.

“I’m not buying this tent,” Lovett says a moment later, once he’s caught his breath.  “It’s just going to give you ideas about actually taking me camping.”

And for some reason that’s the funniest thing Jon’s heard in weeks.  He rolls onto his back and laughs long and loud under Lovett’s bemused gaze.  He’d explain why he finds it so funny, but he’s not sure it would translate if he said it out loud.  The idea itself is absurd - that they’ll ever again have the time, the freedom, the leisure to do something as indulgent as camping.

So instead of saying anything, he just rolls into Lovett’s side and presses kisses into his skin.  This, at least.  This they can have.


	2. Chapter 2

“Know what’s funny?” Lovett said, looking out the passenger window. “This is my first time in Montana.”

Jon looks over. “Really? You never made it here with POTUS?”

“What, all two times he came out here during his presidency?” Lovett asks, drawing a line on the foggy window.

“Dan and I managed to take an extra day during the first campaign.  We went up to Glacier National Park, it was great.”

“I know,” Lovett grins.  “Whenever we talked about climate change, Dan would bring up that trip and talk about how you guys saw a glacier melting in real time.   _‘You don’t really get it until you see it first-hand.’_  I think he tried that once at a meeting in Alaska, you should’ve seen their faces.”

Jon laughs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.  “I wonder what it looks like today.”

“Probably pretty much the same,” Lovett replies.  “There’s something kind of comforting about that, isn’t there?”

“Wanna go take a look? It’s just, like, seven hours in the other direction.”

“I think that might raise some questions,” Lovett says, gesturing vaguely at the vehicles in front of their car.  

Six tanks, seventeen cars, a couple armored police vehicles, all driving in a straight row down the middle of I-90.  Most days Jon feels that he’s become accustomed to the strangeness of the new world they live in, but there is something deeply unsettling about driving on an interstate highway with no other traffic in sight, save for the armed checkpoints every few miles.  

“This is weird, right?” Jon asks vaguely.

“Yep,” Lovett agrees instantly.  “Actually, the crazy thing is that this war probably significantly reduced our carbon output.  So few people on the road anymore, factories shut down…” He spreads his hands.  “The one silver lining from this entire shit cloud - maybe the earth will survive us after all.”

Jon falls silent at that.  They’ve spent the last two years living day to day, never thinking further than the next operation by which they may snatch up a few more precious hours.  It’s jarring to suddenly be contemplating the next ten, fifty, hundred years.  That Carl Sagan bit drifts through his mind - how did it go?  _Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot…_ Jon feels his stomach clench.  There’s something almost unbearable about the idea that all this suffering, all this pain and misery and violence, may be no more than a blip in some future history book.  

And yet, there’s comfort in the idea as well.  As if there’s a life to be had after this is all over - generations yet to come who will live, unscarred and blissfully oblivious.

“Hey,” Lovett says, and Jon starts. “Hey, you okay? What’s up?”

Jon exhales, reaching across the gear shift to grasp Lovett’s thigh, squeezing it tightly like a lifeline.  When the words finally pop into his head, he almost rolls his eyes.  “Just...the fucking audacity of hope.”

Lovett lets out a surprised laugh.  “Seriously?”

Jon shrugs helplessly.  “What can I say, that speech has legs.”

“Yeah, following us right into the apocalypse,” Lovett mutters.  He drops a hand over Jon’s and threads their fingers together.

Ahead of them, the convoy starts to slow down, then comes to a full stop.  Putting the car into park, Jon rolls down the window as a soldier jumps out of the lead tank and walks towards them.

“What’s up?” he asks as she comes up to his window.

“Refueling,” she says.  Over her shoulder Jon can see a truck rolling up, laden with plastic gasoline containers.  “Should take about twenty minutes, so feel free to stretch your legs, take a piss, whatever.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Lovett says, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car.  Jon follows suit, but heads towards the third vehicle in the convoy where the governor is standing.

“Jon,” Inslee greets him.  “How’s the ride?”

“Beautiful, actually,” Jon replies.  “I forgot how much I like mountains.”

Inslee nods, looking around at the ranges in the distance.  “You ski?”

“A bit.  Not lately, of course.”

“When this is all over, come to Washington and we’ll hit the slopes.  I’ll kick your ass on the black diamonds.”

“Yes, sir,” Jon grins, ignoring the pit in his stomach that seems to grow every time someone mentions that opaque future life that seems so impossibly out of reach.  

An aircraft buzzes overhead and Jon looks up, startled.  “F-22 Raptor,” Inslee says.  “Just in case.”

“Right,” Jon says, trying to appear calm.  “Have we picked up a threat?”

Inslee tilts his head slightly.  “There’s always a threat.  They know exactly where we are.”  He thumbs upwards at the disappearing trail left by the Raptor.  “We don’t move without at least one of those overhead.  They report to us on possible threats along the route, and scare away any attempted airstrikes.  We don’t need a repeat of Arizona,” he adds grimly.

Right.  Tucson, eight months earlier.  A humanitarian aid convoy heading to the besieged city, completely destroyed by three large munition bombs from the Air National Guard.  Almost every foreign leader had strongly condemned the airstrike and accused the government of war crimes.

Jon shifts uncomfortably, looking around.  How far out had Lovett gone to pee?  What if he went too far from the safety of the convoy?  Who knew what could be waiting off the side of the high-

“Was that a Raptor?”  Lovett says, coming up from behind.  Jon’s hands twitch by his sides as Lovett comes to stand next to him.  “One of ours?”

“Yep,” Jon says shortly, looking down.  His skin feels too tight and he can feel his heart beating in his throat.

“It’s nice to travel with the big guys,” Lovett is saying, grinning at the governor.  “You should’ve seen the trouble Favs and I got into in northern California when it was just the two of us.”  He turns to grin at Jon, who can barely make eye contact.  Lovett’s brow furrows slightly.

“Governor!” a soldier shouts from the lead tank.  “It’s him!”  Inslee turns and walks swiftly over to the tank, where the soldier holds out the receiver of an ancient-looking radio.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Inslee says.

Jon feels the sudden, insane urge to grab the receiver away from the governor and hear the President’s voice for himself.  

“Do you think I’d sound like an absolute idiot if I asked the governor to tell POTUS I say ‘hi’?” Lovett asks him in a low voice.  Jon bursts out laughing, aware it’s too loud and too shaky.  Lovett shifts closer - not quite touching, but almost.  “You okay, Jon?” he asks.

Jon shakes his head, still laughing.  “No, not really.”

“Anything you need?” Lovett asks quietly.

“Just - “ Jon pauses, breathes in and out and feels Lovett’s warmth next to him.  “Just stay with me out here, will you?”

Lovett reaches up a hand and squeezes Jon’s shoulder, letting it linger for a moment.  “You got it.”

The governor hangs up and starts walking back towards them.  Lovett’s hand drops from Jon’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move away.

“That was the President,” Inslee says when he reaches them.  “They’re just north of Cheyenne.  We’re scrambling a second jet to scan I-25, and then we’ll start moving south to meet them.”

“Do they have any air support?”  Lovett asks, and Jon feels a rush of ice in his veins at the thought of the President exposed and vulnerable out there.

“Three F-15s, an F-22, and a bunch of MANPADs,” Inslee says.  Lovett nods, as if bestowing his approval.  “Take a couple hours to rest, boys.  We’ll be moving soon.”

Jon feels Lovett’s hand on his shoulder again, steering him towards their car.  “I’ll drive the next leg,” he says, taking the keys out of Jon’s pocket and pushing him towards the passenger side.

“You hate driving,” Jon says, but he feels the exhaustion already settling in on his shoulders as he climbs into the car.

“I can handle driving in a straight line without any need to navigate or worry about oncoming traffic,” Lovett says, getting into the driver’s seat.  “C’mon, put your seat back and close your eyes for a few.”

“I don’t like it out here,” Jon says quietly, reclining and closing his eyes.  He feels Lovett card a hand into his hair, his thumb lightly tracing his eyebrows and whispering across his forehead.  His heartbeat calms.

“Shh, just go to sleep,” Lovett is saying.  “That’s right, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Shut up,” Jon murmurs, keeping his eyes closed.  Lovett’s laugh is the last thing he hears before drifting off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

They drive in relative quiet for about an hour, and Jon slips back into the driver’s seat at the next rest stop.  He almost wishes he hadn’t, because now it’s a constant internal struggle not to push down on the accelerator and zoom ahead of the convoy and race down to Cheyenne as fast as their car will go.  His heart pounds at the thought of seeing the President again, seeing hard proof that he lives, that he’s still their leader.  Their hope.

He thinks back to the last time he’d seen the President.  Thirteen months since his last televised speech, almost two years since they’d last seen him in person, on his trip to California to meet with Governor Brown.  He’d been sent to smooth things over in the wake of the LAX bombing, but they’d seen him after the meeting with the governor, and knew that things would only get worse.

“You know, he didn’t say anything when we saw him in California, but do you think he knew that Brown was going to secede?”  Jon asks Lovett, breaking the silence.

Lovett doesn’t need to ask who Jon’s referring to.  “Probably.  I’m sure they discussed it, at least.”

“No wonder he looked so exhausted that day.”

“Yeah,” Lovett says softly.  “I wonder if he’s been blaming himself this whole time.  You know he always took things so personally.”

“I hope not,” Jon replies, but he imagines that Lovett is right.  The President always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.  He’d have spent the last two years analyzing every speech, every executive action, every campaign stop - trying to figure out if there had been a moment where he could have pushed things a different way.

“I can’t believe we’re going to see him tonight,” Jon exhales.  So much has happened - so much has changed - since those heady days in the White House, that he can almost believe he made the whole thing up.  Surely it had been a dream, right?  Long nights in the West Wing with Tommy and Dan and Cody, sitting with the President and Axe in the Oval.

And Lovett.  Always Lovett, right there by his side.

“We’re coming up on a possible chokepoint,” a voice comes through on the radio, ten miles south of Buffalo, Wyoming.  “Stay close behind us, and be prepared to start driving really fast.”

“Right, thanks,” Lovett says into the receiver.  “Uh, roger that?”  Jon swears he hears a snort on the other end before the line goes silent.

Lovett reaches into his bag and pulls out his 9mm and a box of bullets.  Jon breathes.  In, out.  In, out.

The thing about modern warfare is that you don’t really realize when it’s beginning.  No longer is there one single moment heralding the beginning of a war - the archduke gunned down in the street, Crispus Attucks clutching his chest on King Street.  Franklin D. Roosevelt standing in front of Congress, declaring the exact date the United States entered into World War II.  Someday, Jon knows, the judges and lawyers will look back at the facts of this war and decide on a date, an event, a moment in time that divides Before from After.  Perhaps the second American civil war began when LAX was bombed, or when California declared its secession.  Maybe it began on August 13th, 2017, when 912 generals declared mutiny, along with two-fifths of the armed forces.

Or perhaps the war began the day Jon killed three men on the outskirts of Sacramento, his hands steady around the stock of the gun, but shaking furiously as he struggled to untie the knots around Lovett’s wrists.

Before and after.  Before that day, Jon had still been the guy who ironed his shirts and spent hours curating Spotify playlists for different occasions.  A writer, a media pundit, a politico in a world that made sense.

After that day, they were soldiers in a world on fire.

“Glad I cleaned this last week,” Lovett is saying next to him as he fits the clip into the gun.  He chambers a bullet and flicks the safety off, his grip sure and firm.

Jon glances over at him, a wry smile playing at his lips despite his white knuckles around the steering wheel.

“What?”  Lovett asks at Jon’s chuckle.

“Nothing, nothing,” Jon shrugs.  “Just remembering all those times you insisted on taking a cab because you didn’t want to walk on H Street at night.”

“Well, I might have felt a lot safer with a gun in my bag,” Lovett retorts.  “Hey, you think maybe all those Second Amendment assholes had a point this whole time?”

“You know, it’s really something that you were never shot at before Trump destroyed the world.”

“People love me, Jon,” Lovett states.  “I am _beloved_.”

“Pretty sure there were people who voted for Trump specifically to piss you off,” Jon says.  

“There are people that love me, and there are people that haven’t met me yet,” Lovett says, grinning.  “It’ll spread, you’ll see.”

Jon laughs.  “Jon Lovett: loving him is like a virus.”

“Says patient zero over here.”  Lovett raises an eyebrow at him.

Jon smiles, a playful retort dissolving on his tongue.  “Yeah, guess so.”  He keeps his eyes on the road but reaches over, sliding his fingers into the hair at Lovett’s nape.  He feels Lovett relax immediately under his touch, letting out a small sigh.

“Come in,” the radio crackles.  Jon’s heart rate picks up.

“Over,” Lovett says, picking up the receiver.

“The lead tanks are going to stop and provide covering fire just past the next mile marker,” the voice on the line says.  “Follow the lead car, go as fast as you can, and don’t stop.  We’ll reconvene at the rest stop in twelve miles.”  The voice pauses.  “If you get separated from the convoy, keep going until you reach Cheyenne.”

“Right.  Got it.”  Lovett says, his face drawn and pale.  Jon squeezes his neck.  “Copy that, I mean.”

“Just drive fast in a straight line, and you’ll be okay,” the voice says, somewhat warmer.  “We’ll be through this before you know it.”

Lovett lets out a short laugh after the line goes silent.  “Well, this is fucking terrifying,” he says.  “What kind of backwoods _The Hills Have Eyes_ rednecks do you think we’re going to encounter today?”

Jon doesn’t respond.  He knows this is how Lovett copes with these moments and what’s required of him.  Better to think of them all as Nazis and racist murderers than to grapple with the horror of killing other Americans.  “Time to go pick off another one of Fred Phelps’ incestuous offspring,” he’ll joke, shouldering his rifle.  Or “those Bundy assholes aren’t going to just die off on their own.”

Only later, in their bed with Jon wrapped around him, will Lovett cry.

They approach the bend in the road, and Jon sees the two lead tanks begin to slow, peeling off to the left and right.  As they grind to a halt, the cars in front of them pick up speed.  Jon floors the accelerator.  The speedometer shows their acceleration - 80, 90, 100 MPH.  

They’ve just hit 110 MPH when the bullets start firing.

“Shit,” Lovett hisses, his eyes scanning the shoulders of the highway.  “Where the fuck are they?”

Jon grips the steering wheel and breathes.  In, out.  In, out.  Drive fast, drive straight, don’t stop.

Ahead of them, a bullet shatters the rear passenger window of the second car in their convoy.  “ _Shit!_ ” Lovett shouts again, jumping.

Drive fast, drive straight.  Don’t stop.  Jon flashes on the cars in the presidential motorcade, with glass half-a-foot thick.  Their Audi seems unbearably fragile.  What’s even the point of having windows that don’t stop bullets?

Lovett sucks in air through his teeth.  “There, over there.”  He jabs at a cluster of trees half a mile off the right side of the highway.  “There they fucking are.”

Jon nods at the radio.  “Okay, good, you should call - “

“Hang on,” Lovett grits, rolling down the window.  And despite Jon’s uncharitable thoughts just a moment earlier about their usefulness, he suddenly feels horribly exposed.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Jon asks frantically.

“Shut up, shut up,” Lovett says, and with that he _leans_ _out the window_ and starts firing his gun.

“What the _fuck_ , Lovett?” Jon shouts.  He fights every instinct he has to pull the car over and yank Lovett back inside.  Instead, he keeps his foot pressed down on the accelerator.  Drive fast, drive straight, _don’t stop_.

Hanging out the window, Lovett is still firing his gun, his shouting indistinct.  People in the other cars in their convoy have caught on, and Jon sees guns popping out of passenger side windows, trained at the same copse of trees Lovett is aiming at.  Jon keeps driving, one hand shooting out to grab the back of Lovett’s shirt, gripping it tightly in his fist.

After what feels like hours, the distinct popping noises slow and finally stop.  Lovett pulls himself back inside the window, his face flushed and his eyes hard.  Without thinking Jon whips his arm out and pins it across Lovett’s chest, pushing him back against his seat.  “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” he spits, furious.  “How…what on earth…”

Lovett strains against Jon’s forearm, but Jon doesn’t let up.  “It worked, okay?  It worked, the other cars saw where the shooting was coming from.”

Jon wants to pin Lovett down, clamp a hand over his mouth, lock him up somewhere safe.  He presses harder into Lovett’s chest.  He can feel Lovett’s heart pounding under his palm.

“I’m fine,” Lovett says, his hand coming up to clench Jon’s wrist.  “Jon, I’m fine.  We’re fine.”

Jon breathes.  In, out.  In, out.  He lessens the pressure on Lovett’s chest, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt.  “You’re fine,” he repeats.  Assuring himself.

“Yes.”  Lovett takes Jon’s hand in both of his, lifting it to his mouth.  “I’m okay, see?”  He kisses each finger, heated and agitated, biting down softly on Jon’s ring finger.  Jon lets out a choked gasp, his fingers clenching around Lovett’s.

Lovett’s kisses grow slower, hotter, his tongue darting out to lick each of Jon’s fingers, his palm.  Jon exhales shakily, pressing two fingers to Lovett’s lips, which part automatically and draw them in.  He sucks on them obediently, swirling his tongue over their tips.  Jon sees Lovett’s hand drift down, palming his own crotch.

“No,” he says sharply.  Lovett moves his hand away immediately.  

Jon looks out the windshield and in the rearview mirror.  The nearest car in their caravan is a half-mile behind them.  He pushes his fingers further into Lovett’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat.  Lovett gags, and Jon feels a calm settle over him.

“Are you going to make it up to me?” Jon asks in a low voice.  Lovett hums around Jon’s fingers, his tongue still stroking along their sides.  Jon pulls his fingers out of Lovett’s mouth and grips his chin.  “If you can get me off before we hit the rest stop, I’ll let you come tonight.”

Lovett inhales sharply, nodding.  As soon as Jon releases him, he bends over the gear shift and unbuttons Jon’s jeans, reaching in to pull out his stiffening cock.  Jon groans out loud when Lovett swallows him down in one motion.  “Fuck,” he hisses, his hips jerking up.  His cock hits the back of Lovett’s throat, but Lovett takes him in even further, breathing through his nose.  “Oh, fuck, you’re such a slut for it, aren’t you?”  He manages to keep his foot on the pedal and his eyes open, but just barely.

The adrenaline coursing through Jon’s veins would’ve made this a short job already, but Lovett is giving it his all.  He pulls up slowly, trailing his tongue along the underside of Jon’s cock and sucking gently on the tip.  Jon’s hips lift, chasing Lovett’s cruel, pretty mouth.  He feels Lovett laugh more than he hears it, before Lovett is swallowing up Jon’s cock again.

Seconds later Jon is coming down Lovett’s throat, pushing down on his head so Lovett’s nose is pressed to his thigh.  Lovett swallows every drop, his tongue catching the last of it as he pulls off Jon’s softening cock.  

“Holy fuck,” Jon says when he catches his breath.  He looks over at the unbearably smug look on Lovett’s face.  “Shut up, oh my god.”

Lovett _giggles_.  “Did that do the trick?  Are you still pissed?”

“Probably, but right now I can barely remember my own name.”

“Close enough,” Lovett smiles, biting his lip.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost midnight when they pull up to the encampment - actually just a couple motels in a strip mall outside of Cheyenne.  Jon, per instructions passed over through the radio, follows the governor’s car to a house two blocks away.  They park on the street and wait.

“So, there’s a fair chance that I’m going to hug the President for too long and embarrass us both,” Lovett says.  “You have my permission to kick me if it starts to get awkward.”

Jon laughs.  “Well, if I’d known that was the deal I’d have started to kick you _years_ ago.”

The governor and his aides get out of the car and start walking towards the house.  Jon and Lovett follow suit.  Jon feels his heart beat triple-time as he nears the house.  The President is in there, he thinks wildly.  The President is there, the President is there, the President is - _there_.

Because there he is, standing in the door, illuminated by the soft yellow light from the house, wearing his favorite old brown sweater.  “Well, who do we have here?” Barack Obama asks, smiling at the small group gathered on the porch.  “Come on in, folks.”

He shakes Inslee’s hand and greets his staff as they walk through the door.  Then he turns to Jon and Lovett.  “Man, it’s good to see you both,” he says, before grabbing Jon in a firm grip.  Jon lifts his arms to hug him back, and barely resists dropping his face forward onto Obama’s shoulder and weeping.

He hears Lovett clear his throat and pulls back, glancing over his shoulder to see Lovett’s amused face.  “Jon Lovett,” Obama says stepping forward to wrap him in an equally strong hug.  “You’re looking good, man!”

Lovett beams up at the President.  “Thank you, sir.”

Jon clears his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that’s formed there.  “It’s good to see you too, Mr. President.”  
  
“Well, come on then,” Obama says, waving them both inside.  “Let’s all get some rest tonight.  We’ve got some things to discuss in the morning.”

Jon smiles, feeling a weight dissolving as he followed the President into the warm house.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon seizes Lovett in a searing kiss as soon as they’re shut into their room, biting Lovett’s lips and pushing him towards the bed.  

“Whoa, whoa,” Lovett laughs.  “Shh, we’ve got to be quiet.”

Jon pushes Lovett back onto the bed and crawls over him.  “We’re alive,” he says mindlessly, the words bubbling up from deep inside.  “He’s _alive_ , we can fight.  Lovett, we can win.  And,” he says, kissing Lovett soundly, “I promised to get you off tonight.”

“Right,” Lovett says breathlessly as Jon sucks and bites at his throat.  “But the _President_ is just down the hall.  That would be like our dad, and our boss, and _the President of the United States_ hearing us have sex, all wrapped up in one.”

Jon pulls back and raises an eyebrow.  “Then I guess you’d better be quiet, right?”

Lovett sucks in a breath, before nodding quickly.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I can do that.”

Jon smiles and surges up, claiming Lovett’s mouth in a long, consuming kiss.  Finally he breaks away and drops to his knees, palming Lovett’s stiffening cock.

“You can be quiet?” he asks, squeezing gently.  Lovett closes his eyes and breathes.  Nods.  Jon smiles and pushes up Lovett’s shirt.  “Good boy.”

Lovett makes almost no noise that night.  Almost.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon blinks his eyes open.  Gray light drifts in through a crack in the blinds, soft and cold, and he indulges in the hazy feeling that surrounds him, letting his thoughts remain cloudy, disoriented.  It’s a long moment before his mind clears, before he remembers.  They’re at war.  They’re at war and things are terrifying.  Things are terrifying, but the President is here.

The President is here.  Jon’s heart jumps and he’s suddenly fully awake.

He lays still for another long minute, listening to Lovett breathing deeply next to him, before he swings his legs out from under the covers and stands.   

Jon hears movement in the kitchen as he’s coming down the stairs, and he follows the sound to find the President standing at the stove, cracking eggs into a frying pan.  Jon stands in the doorjamb for a minute and stares, allowing himself to indulge in the Christmas morning feeling of the moment.  Obama is humming softly to himself as he spices his eggs.  Jon wants to reach out and grab fistfuls of his soft gray sweater, assure himself that he's really here.

As if sensing Jon’s presence, Obama turns around and notices him standing there.  “Favs!” he says warmly, waving him into the room.  “Perfect timing, I made enough for two.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Jon says, feeling almost shy.  He pulls out a barstool and sits down at the island.  “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Obama says, serving up two plates of eggs and sausages.  “How about you?”  He looks at Jon, a small smile on his face.

Jon, horrifyingly, begins to blush.  “Uh, yeah, you know.”

Obama’s smile widens.  “So, you and Lovett, hm?”

Jon fights a smile even as his face burns.  “I guess I finally figured it out.”

“Well, that’s about as good a piece a news as I’ve heard in the last two years,” Obama says, clapping Jon on the shoulder.  “Just tell me you weren’t getting up to anything in the West Wing.”

Jon suddenly, fervently, hopes some neo-Nazis will attack them so he can be spared this conversation.  “No, _no_ ,” he groans, dropping his head into his hands.  “Ugh, god, no sir.”

“All right, all right,” Obama laughs, walking to the fridge and pulling out some orange juice.  He pours two glasses and sets one in front of Jon along with a plate of food.  “Here, eat your breakfast.”  Jon grabs his fork and digs in.  If his mouth is full, the President can’t ask him questions, after all.  

Obama sits next to him and they eat in comfortable silence.  Jon keeps stealing glances to his left.  For the last two years, as the country descended into chaos and destruction, it seems the mythos of Barack Obama has only grown.  Strategy discussions begin and end with the movement of the President and his band of fighters and supporters.  Whenever he appeared on resistance radio channels, the audio spread like wildfire, shared by supporters and detractors alike.  

No one says it, but Jon knows that most people in the resistance are hanging their ever-diminishing hopes on the man sitting next to him, a piece of egg sticking to the corner of his mouth.  Jon feels his heart slam into his chest as he feels the conflicting elation and horror of the two possibilities.  It could be that Obama's movement west heralds a new hope for the resistance, that the end to this war may finally be in sight.  Or it could be that he is - that he always has been - just a man, a man with mortal abilities and finite options, a man who cannot do everything the world demands of him.

Jon looks at Obama, takes in the lines around his eyes and the set of his shoulders, and he wants to reassure him, to take some of the burden away.  

Jon also desperately wants Obama to tell him everything will be okay.

“What?” Obama asks, noticing Jon staring at him. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No - no,” Jon starts, embarrassed.  “Well, actually, yeah.”  He points vaguely to the corner of his mouth.  “Sorry, sir.  I was just...I’m really glad to see you.”

Obama smiles broadly at him, and Jon's heart clenches.  Even with the new lines on his face and shadows under his eyes, when he smiles he looks as youthful and bright as when Jon first met him.  “Me too.  I knew some of what you and Lovett have been up to, but I’ll tell you, it’s good to see you in the flesh, make sure you’re still in one piece.”

Jon shrugs.  “We’ve been lucky enough.”  He hesitates.  “Have you seen any of the others?  Tommy, Dan?”

Obama frowns, looking down.  “Sorry, no.  I know Tommy and Dan have been in and around New York - they’re okay,” he adds quickly.  Jon nods, his heart hammering.  The last he’d heard of them had been months earlier, before Whatsapp had been hacked and they'd mostly gone off digital messaging.  “I’ve been with Axe and Rahm in Chicago.” 

“And...the Vice President?”

“He and Jill are fine.  They’ve been in Philadelphia since the war started.”  Obama looks away, his expression closed.  “It’s been about a year since we’ve spoken.”

Jon nods quickly.  He could keep asking, of course.  Could go down a list hundreds of names long, but he knows eventually he’ll get an answer he doesn’t want.  He figures this morning, at least, he can quit while he’s ahead.

They hear footsteps on the second floor as people start to move around in the house.  Within ten minutes the kitchen is a hub of activity, filled with Obama and Inslee aides, everyone digging through the freshly stocked cabinets for breakfast.

“Eat quickly, team,” Obama says, putting his plate into the sink and moving towards the living room.  “Meeting starts in fifteen minutes.”

Jon looks at the people freshly assembled in the kitchen, scanning for familiar faces.  He’s disheartened to find that he doesn’t recognize anyone, although that makes some sense.  These are probably the President’s Chicago staff - the people who stayed behind in Illinois rather than winding up in DC.  However, he'd been holding out hope that -

“Jon,” Valerie Jarrett says, putting a hand on his arm.  Jon spins around, a grin splitting his face.

“Valerie!”  He sweeps her up in a hug.  “I was really hoping to see you.”

She laughs, squeezing him tightly before stepping back and scanning her eyes over him.  “You’re looking thin.”

Jon rubs the back of his neck.  “Yeah, you know.  Not a lot of time to hit the gym these days.”

Valerie smiles at him.  “We’re really glad you could join us.  We’ve got some important work to do.”

“Anything we can do to help,” Jon says quietly and with meaning.

“We?” Valerie raises a playful eyebrow.  

“Not you, too,” Jon pleads, raising his hands in supplication.  

Valerie laughs.  “All right, all right.  Go get your boy and meet us in the living room.”  With a last wink she turns and heads to the other room.

Jon looks around for Lovett, and is unsurprised to find he’s not downstairs yet.  Shaking his head, he heads upstairs to wake him.

“Lovett,” he says softly, shaking his arm gently.  Lovett shifts and rolls away from Jon, still asleep.

Jon crawls into bed and wraps an arm around Lovett’s waist, pressing a hand over his heart.  He feels Lovett stir.  “Jon?”

“Morning, baby,” he murmurs, kissing Lovett’s shoulder.  Lovett sighs and threads his fingers through Jon’s pulling his arm tighter around him.  “Nope, sorry, time to get up.”

“Mm-mm,” Lovett disagrees, keeping his eyes closed.  

Jon laughs and stands, pulling Lovett by the hand.  “Come on, Valerie wants to see you.”

Lovett’s eyes open, and a smile splits his face.  “Oh, _right_ ,” he breathes, seemingly remembering where they are and who they’re with.  Jon grins down at him, a frisson of hope shivering under his skin.

“C’mon,” he repeats, tugging Lovett up.  

 

* * *

  

Three hours into the meeting, Jon’s head is pounding and the brief flicker of hope in his gut is long gone.  Every piece of news the President and his team share is worse than the last.  They’ve lost the tenuous hold they had in parts of Iowa, and the route across Nebraska was far more difficult to traverse than they’d expected when they left Chicago.  The fighting in New England, once a source of such optimism and energy for the resistance (actual songs had been written about the battle in Portland, Maine), is turning back against them.

Worst of all, perhaps, is that they’re about to be pushed out of Colorado.

“They can’t take Denver, though,” protests Mitch, a former Army Ranger and one of Inslee’s military experts.  “The force strength they’d need for that kind of urban warfare against a resistance that large…”

“No, they can’t take Denver,” Obama agrees.  “But they can starve it out.  There are over three million people in the city now, by some estimates.  People have been flooding in from all over the region, and the roads are getting harder and harder to cross.  Within six months we could have a huge humanitarian crisis on our hands.”

Jon looks over at Lovett, who’s wearing an expression of grief and fear that Jon can only imagine is mirrored on his own face.  If they lose Denver, the resistance will essentially be cleaved in two.  _Divided we fall._

The meeting is soon adjourned, quiet and subdued staffers filing out of the room.  Obama looks over at Valerie, who nods once, then at Inslee.  

“Jon, Lovett?”  Obama says.  They pause in the doorway and look back.  “Stay behind a moment, would you?”

Jon shoots a glance at Lovett, who shrugs.  They shut the door behind the last Inslee aide and sit back down.  The room is quiet, tense.  Jon looks from Obama, to Valerie, to Inslee.  

The President is silent for a long moment, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his clasped hands.  They wait for him to speak.

Finally, Obama clears his throat.  “We’re going to lose the war,” he says, looking up and meeting Jon’s eyes.  His voice is steady, but his face is lined with grief.  Helplessness.  Shame.  “We can’t keep the middle of the country much longer, and once the east and west are divided, it’s only a matter of time before we lose the military bases in those areas, too.  And then…”

Then, Jon knows, then they lose the war.  Then the nationalists will be able to encroach on resistance territory, wear them down, starve them out.  They can hold New York, and San Francisco.  Chicago and Seattle, maybe.  But it’s only a matter of time before the entire might of the U.S. military is back under Trump’s control.  They'll become a guerilla force, a thorn in Trump's side, but victory will be all but foreclosed to them.

Jon feels cold all over.  Valerie’s face is a mask, and Inslee appears as lost as Jon has ever seen him look.  He sees Lovett’s hands trembling, and he fights every instinct he has to reach out and grab them in his own.  

“Right,” Jon says hoarsely.  He clears his throat and nods.  “Right,” he says, more clearly.  “So what’s the next step, then?”  He thinks _surrender?_ but can’t bring himself to say the word out loud.

Obama sighs.  “Well, that’s actually what we wanted to talk with you two about.”  Jon straightens.  Could they have a plan?  Some ace in the hole that might turn them back from this precipice?  “We’ve been contacted...someone has reached out to us.  Someone from inside the Trump inner circle.  They say they can get us access to him.”

“Who?”  Lovett asks, leaning forward.

Valerie and Obama share a look.  “That’s the thing - we don’t know,” Valerie says.

“Oh, well that’s a great start,” Lovett mutters.  Jon knocks their knees together.  

“Believe me, we know,” Valerie replies.  “This person has reached out through a series of connections to get this information to the President.  They can get us access, in exchange for assurances of a full pardon if we are successful.”

“Successful in what?” Lovett asks slowly.  “What do we need access to Trump for?”

The moment hangs, heavy and deafening.

Jon looks at Obama.  “What are you asking us to do?”

“We need you to make contact with this person.  Make the deal.  Meet up with our forces in the east and…” Obama shakes his head helplessly.  “We need you to see this through.”

“Why us?” Lovett asks, tapping his foot nervously.  “I mean, isn’t this a military mission or…”

“This is a political contact.  We need you to follow the chain of contacts back to this person, so we need to send people who know the connections.  People they’ll trust - people they’ll know speak with my voice.”  Obama looks wryly at Jon.  “You’ve always had that ability.”

Jon feels his eyes sting, and he looks away.  “How do you know this person is who they say they are?  How do you know they can do what they’re promising?” he asks.

“I trust the chain of custody on this information,” Obama says.  He hesitates.  “As for whether they can follow through...look.  This may be our one option.”

“ _Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope,_ ” Lovett says, the worry in his eyes belying his jocular tone.

“I guess so,” Obama agrees.  

Valerie leans forward.  “The President would continue to move west, and we’ll make a big show of it.  We'll gather some of our strength out west and move to fortify Denver."

"Can we do that without leaving the western states vulnerable to attack?" Lovett asks, worried.

Valerie hesitates before shaking her head slowly.  "It’s our best shot at distracting the White House.  If we're lucky they'll pull some of their forces from Indiana and Ohio, which might give our guys up north some time to regroup."

They're risking everything on this play, Jon realizes with a sense of dread.  This is no more than a Hail Mary, and if they fail the entire resistance may fall.

"The two of you should be able to get to the east coast quickly enough, keeping a low profile the whole time," Inslee speaks up.  “We could send you with a few soldiers, maybe.  Non-uniformed, but able to provide support.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Valerie says.  “I feel like that’s more likely to draw attention.  However, if you would be more comfortable with some more security…”

Jon stands, suddenly feeling overheated and exposed.  “I’m - “ he walks a few steps, stops, and turns back.  “I’m going to take a couple minutes, okay?”

For the first time in his life, he leaves a room before being dismissed by the President.

 

* * *

 

Jon sits on the back porch and focuses on breathing steadily.  He watches his breath appear in front of him in the cold air.  In, out.  In, out. 

“Hey,” a voice says.  The President sits down next to him and looks out at the flat expanse of snow and trees.  “It’s nice out here.”

“Whose house is this?”  Jon finds himself asking, as though he gave a shit.

“A campaign donor,” Obama says.

Jon bends his head, not looking over at the President.  “I’m sorry...I know people have had to do harder things, scarier things, but…”

“Don’t apologize,” Obama said firmly.  “I’m asking something incredibly difficult of you.  Don’t think I don’t know that.”

Jon nods, falling silent.  He and Obama sit, shoulder to shoulder, for a long moment.  His mind races, trying to untangle his jumbled thoughts.

“Did I tell you where Malia is?”  Obama asks, staring straight ahead.

“She’s not in Chicago?”

“Michelle and Sasha are.  But Malia is with the Boston Front.”

Jon looks over, his eyes widening.  “She’s fighting?”

Obama nods.  “Harvard’s still open, actually.  She could be in school, but she chose to leave school and join the front after the Battle of Portland.”  He clears his throat.  “Last we got word, she was in New Hampshire, running lines between Boston and Canada.”

Jon shakes his head.  “She’s certainly your daughter.”

“I never fought in a war.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a soldier.”  Jon feels the President look over at him, but avoids meeting his eyes.  He searches for the right words.  “I’m still not used to this, you know?  I still feel awkward with a gun strapped to my back.  I trust that the people I meet are good, and right-minded.  I don’t think to check for exit routes when I’m on the move.  I’ve killed people over the last two years, but it’s not…” Jon laughs mirthlessly.  “This isn’t _normal._ ”

Obama looks at him.  “Of course it’s not normal.”

Jon nods, falling silent.  History, he knows, is told by the victors - embellished and buffed to a high shine.  Bravery is not inherent, not a hook drawing certain, chosen people to heroic acts.  Bravery is a necessity born out of moments like this, when ordinary people have been called to do the extraordinary.

This is the time they live in.  This is what the moment demands of him.  This is the choice in front of him.

“Right,” Jon says, taking a deep breath.  “I’m not a fighter.  I’m not a natural soldier.  But...look, sir, you’re my general.  You’re the person I’ll follow into battle.  And if this is what we need to do, then I’ll do it.”

Obama nods, his eyes suspiciously bright.  “This is what we need to do.”

“Okay, then,” Jon says.  “Yes, sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

They spend hours with the President, the Governor, and their staff that night, discussing and dissecting and reconstructing every element of their mission.  However, they seem to have so little information that the plan essentially boils down to “get to Chicago, find Axe.”

(Lovett snorts loudly when Valerie says that.  They all turn to look at him, and he flushes bright crimson.

“Sorry,” he’d says, waving vaguely.  “Sorry, it’s just…’and my axe.’”  The rest of them look back at him, nonplussed, and he sighs in frustration.  “Come on, this whole thing has a total _Lord of the Rings_ feel to it, right?  Gimli?  ' _And my axe!’_ ”  He shrugs, sheepish and annoyed.  “Never mind.”

“Right,” Obama continues, fighting a smile.  “Get to Chicago.  Find Axe.  And my bow.” 

“ _Thank_ you!” Lovett cries, gesturing at the President.)

So.  Get to Chicago.  The easiest way to get to Chicago is through Denver, and then a direct eastern route through Kansas and Missouri.  Jon and Lovett have spent two years at war, but Jon knows they’re not prepared for driving through red country.  He stares grimly at the map as they wrap up their meeting, his eyes tracing the highway arteries through those handful of states - flyover states, rural and red and country, and more dangerous than anything they’ve experienced yet.

First, Denver.  It will be their last base camp before the long stretch towards Chicago, a place to resupply and perhaps change vehicles, and receive the latest intel on their route east.  They should have easy roads on their way there - three hours max, they’re told, until they’re safely behind the blue checkpoints. 

They leave early in the morning before most of the house is awake, although Valerie and the President meet them in the kitchen for breakfast and some final well-wishes.  Jon lingers in the hallway before he walks out the door, drawing the last dregs of comfort and fortitude from Obama’s presence.  He wants to drink him in, spend hours studying the lines of his face and the movement of his hands, unlock the President’s secret power to make people follow him to the ends of the earth.  However, Lovett is waiting in the doorway and beyond him, a wide and uncertain path that they must take, so Jon forces himself to smile, turn away, and walk out the door. 

He feels the heartbreak as a physical pain when they drive around the corner and he can no longer see Obama standing on the sidewalk.  Lovett, driving the first shift as if he knew this moment would come, stays quiet while Jon bends in half and cries full, wracking sobs.  Lovett rubs his back through it, blessedly silent and just _there_ as Jon lets himself feel the exhaustive, comprehensive expanse of his grief.

Long minutes later, he leans back in his seat and breathes shakily, feeling drained, exhausted, yet somewhat refreshed.  “I’m okay,” he says quietly, scrubbing his hands down his face.  He can only imagine what he looks like, red-eyed and blotchy.  Lovett looks at him, worry painted across his face.  “I’m okay,” Jon says again, steadier.  “I think I needed that.” 

Lovett nods quickly.  “Sure, I get that.  I haven’t had a good cry since we got back from Spokane.  They say it’s good to cry, let those emotions out.  Self-care, you know, I read all about self-care after the Trump election.  Take baths, watch Netflix, let yourself cry.  It was right there on the internet.” 

Jon smiles wanly as Lovett hits his groove.  He doesn’t even need to listen to the words, not now.  Instead, he enjoys the melody of his rant, washing over him like a calm, slow tide.  The rise and fall, the pause right before the hook, the quick drop-off to let a punchline land.  Jon’s seen Lovett do this a million times - draw in an unsuspecting audience line by line, making them laugh at all the right moments, eating out of his hand by the time he puts an exclamation point on the last word.  Except here, now, there is no audience.  There is only Jon.  And Jon requires no convincing.  He’s already drawn in, already hooked, all those years ago. 

“So if you want to download the Harry Potter audiobooks for the roadtrip, you do you, okay?”  Lovett says.  He looks over at Jon, his expression open and affectionate.  “What?” he asks when Jon doesn’t say anything.

“Nothing.”  Jon shakes his head.  “Just, I really love you.”

“Oh,” Lovett says, a pleased flush pinking up his cheeks.  “Well, that’s a decent form of self-care, too.”

“Probably is,” Jon agrees.  “Also, yes, let’s definitely download the Harry Potter audiobooks.”

Lovett chuckles, reaching across the gear shift to thread their fingers together.  They drive in comfortable silence for several miles, passing a succession of signs announcing Denver’s nearing presence.  Sixty miles, fifty miles, forty miles.

They’re thirty miles outside Denver when everything goes completely pear-shaped.

They barely hear the pop of the gunshot that takes out their front right tire, sends them spinning out on the empty highway.  Lovett is shouting, the steering wheel spinning through his fingers as he tries to keep his grip.  He slams on the breaks, which seems to do nothing but make the car spin even more erratically.  Jon spares a moment to be grateful that they are alone on the highway, with no other cars to crash into.  He’s thinking that at the moment they slam sideways into the middle barricade and come to a sickening stop.   

Lovett is drawing in light, choked breaths, his grip on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white.  “Lovett,” Jon says desperately, leaning over him and pressing his hands against his torso, his arms, his face.  He thinks he might be checking for injuries, but on some level he knows he just needs to feel Lovett under his hands, know that he’s okay.  “Honey, breathe.”  He grabs Lovett’s face in his hands and forces him to look up.  " _Breathe,_ " he commands.

Lovett breathes.  He takes big, gasping breaths, his hands loosening on the steering wheel.  “Good, that’s good,” Jon says in a voice that’s far calmer than his frantic heartbeat should allow.  “Okay, Lovett, listen.  We need to move, now.  We need to get our guns and get off the road.”

Lovett nods.  He’s still shaking, but his eyes are alert and his breathing is steadier.  “Yeah.  Yes.  Let’s go,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt.  

The moment they open their car doors, however, bullets start firing in their direction.  They slam shut the doors and duck their heads as the glass of the front passenger window shatters.  “Fuck!”  Lovett shouts, trying to reach into the backseat for his gun without raising his head.  “Fuck, I can’t reach it.”

Jon thinks about their guns and two boxes of ammo, and thinks about their destroyed car, and thinks about the thirty miles of contested, war torn territory they still need to make it through before they reach the safe zone surrounding Denver.  Options run through his mind like sand, slipping away quicker than he can grasp them.  They’re trapped.

He thinks about Obama, trusting them with this mission.  Will they know that they’ve failed, that they’ve died on this bare stretch of highway only two hours into their mission?  Or will they carry on with the plan, assuming Jon and Lovett are on their way, and bring catastrophe on the whole resistance?

The guns are still firing, closer every minute.  He thinks he counts four separate guns, but he really can’t be sure.  There could be a dozen of them out there, for all he knows.  Jon keeps his head down, shielding Lovett as best as he can with his body, and waits for the final shots.

“Jon,” Lovett whispers, his hands reaching up to clench Jon’s wrists.  

“It’s okay, I’m here, I’ve got you” Jon rambles.  Nothing is okay. 

They hear indistinct shouting, footsteps nearing the car, and Jon tenses.  When the five shots are fired in quick succession ( _poppoppoppoppop_ ) his breath freezes in his throat.  It’s a long, disoriented minute before Jon realizes they’re still alive.

They jump apart as the passenger door swings open and someone ducks his head into the car to see them. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Evan McMullin says, grinning.

 

* * *

 

“So, you two have been in Oregon this whole time?”  Evan asks a few miles down the road.   

“Just the last year and change,” Jon says.  “We came up to help with the eastern Oregon offensive, and have been based out of Portland ever since.”

“Great stuff,” Evan says.  He catches the eye of one of his companions in the backseat, a young man with a blinding white smile and cornsilk blonde hair.  “Jordan, you had a brother fighting in Oregon, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Jordan responds.  “He went to Idaho after they lost that area.”

Lovett looks at him, his eyes narrowing.  “After they _lost?"_

“Oh, yeah,” Evan says comfortably.  “Pretty much all of Jordan’s family is on the other side of this, isn’t that right?”

Jordan nods, his expression hooded.

“Sorry, man,” Lovett says in a kinder tone.  “That must really suck.”

“It’s pretty common out here,” Jordan shrugs.

“You’re not in your coastal bubble anymore,” Evan says.  “Most people in middle America have at least some family on the other side.  My dad’s whole side of the family is fighting with the Utah Guard.  My wife’s sister is down in New Mexico with her kids, living in the new settlements outside Albuquerque.  This isn’t liberal America out here.”

Jon silently prays that Lovett will remain calm and not say anything that will piss off their saviors and only hope of making it to Denver alive.

“Well, that’s very sad,” Lovett says, his tone carrying veritable _tomes_ of unsaid snark, which Jon hopes Evan doesn’t pick up on. 

“So, have you been in Utah this whole time?” Jon asks quickly.  “What brings you to Colorado?”

“I’m everywhere these days,” Evan says enigmatically.  Jon senses rather than hears Lovett’s derisive snort.  “I was meeting up with some folks in Nebraska who were on their way back from Wisconsin.”

“Lots of resistance fighters in Nebraska, right?” Lovett asks innocently.

Evan looks back at him in the rearview mirror.  “Lucky there are, otherwise I wouldn’t have been on this road this morning.”

Lovett falls silent at that, his eyes flashing.

“Are you meeting anyone in Denver?” Jon asks after an awkward moment.

“No,” Evan says.  “I probably shouldn’t even go in.  I’ll drop you boys at the first checkpoint and they’ll get you into the city.”

“Oh...sure,” Jon says haltingly.  “Sure, that sounds good.  Thanks, man.”

Evan claps him on the shoulder.  “Just a helping hand from a friend of the pod,” he grins.  Lovett lets out a low groan.

Jon bursts out laughing.

 

* * *

 

The soldier at the checkpoint calls for a vehicle to pick them up and drive them to Capitol Hill.  “Well,” Lovett says once they’re in the car.  “He’s still a dick.” 

Jon grins.  “I think he’s great.  You’re just mad about the time he made fun of you on the pod.”

“Sure, that, and the fact that he’s probably selling resistance secrets to the nationalists.  You can’t tell me you trust him and his Merry Band of Mormons.”

“Why not?” Jon asks.  “If anything, they’re making a bigger sacrifice than the rest of us, splitting from their families to do what’s right.”

“Hey, I split from my family,” Lovett retorts.

“I said _sacrifice_ , not perk.”

“Fine, fine.”  Lovett glares at Jon.  “But when you fall victim to the most predictable betrayal since Dan Brown’s latest novel, I’m not going to be there to bail you out.”

“Sure you will,” Jon grins.

Lovett rolls his eyes.  “Fine, I will, but I’m going to be wearing a hat that says _I TOLD YOU SO_ in giant neon letters while I do so.”

“Fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

They arrive at the capitol and speak to the local commander, an Army colonel missing two fingers and most of her hearing.  Jon had been worried that they’d have to be cagey about their orders, but she barely registers their names before she directs them to the supply chief.  They speak with the chief about what they’ll need in terms of weapons (“two semi-automatics each, a couple handguns, and enough ammo to fill a duffel bag!” he’d shouted to the soldier in the gun locker); food (“if you think you’ll be on the road three days, bring six days worth of food and nine days worth of water”); and vehicles (“look, a Subaru is a Subaru, all right? Take the keys.”).

By the time they have the car loaded, the sun is going down, so the supply chief directs them to a nearby hotel with spare rooms.  “God, I’m exhausted,” Jon says as they walk into the room.  “What a fucking day.”

“Mm-hmm,” Lovett agrees, putting their bags down on one of the beds and kicking off his shoes.  “Shower?” he asks, inclining his head towards the bathroom.

“I’m okay, you go first,” Jon says, falling backwards onto the second bed.

Lovett sighs.  “Dude, no.  I’m asking - _shower?"_

“Oh,” Jon says, realizing.  “Oh!  Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“Way to make a guy feel desired,” Lovett jokes, grabbing Jon’s hand and pulling him into the bathroom.  He turns on the shower and adjusts the temperature until he’s satisfied.  Turning back, he slides his hands under Jon’s shirt and runs his nails up Jon’s stomach and chest, tweaking his nipples.  Jon’s dick jumps, responding immediately to Lovett’s expert, knowing touches.

Lovett pulls Jon’s shirt over his head and attaches his teeth to one nipple, tugging lightly.  Jon feels heat pool in his groin, and he spreads his legs to pull Lovett in closer, his hips slotting into place between Jon’s thighs.  

“How’s this for making you feel desired?” Jon asks, rolling his crotch against Lovett’s hip.  Lovett grins and leans up to capture Jon’s lips in a slow, sweet kiss.

They undress lazily, pressing hands and mouths to bare skin as it is slowly revealed.  Jon kneels and pulls Lovett’s pants and boxers down and off, kissing his way from Lovett’s ankle to shin to knee to thigh.  When he reaches Lovett’s cock, half-hard and flushed, Jon runs his lips along the sides, sucking lightly on the tip and dipping his head to lick Lovett’s balls.  After a few minutes of Jon’s gentle, light ministrations, Lovett’s cock is hard and leaking.

Jon stands up, relishing Lovett’s groan of frustration.  “Hey,” he says softly, leaning in to bite Lovett’s lips.  “Get in the shower.”  Once they’re both in the shower Lovett is pushing up against Jon, his hips moving desperately to find some friction.  Jon laughs and pushes Lovett away, turns him around.  “Hands on the wall in front of you,” he says, reaching for the soap.  “Thighs together.”

Lovett take a sharp breath, understanding Jon’s intent.  He obeys quickly, pressing his legs together and putting his hands on the wall, his ass sticking out behind him.  Jon fits a soapy hand in between Lovett’s thighs, squeezing and kneading and soaping up his skin.  Then he pulls away and pushes his cock into the tight squeeze between Lovett’s legs, thrusting slowly.  

“That’s great, that’s so good,” Jon says, running his hands up and down Lovett’s back and sides.  Lovett is breathing quickly.  “You want to touch yourself, right?” Jon asks, moving a hand around to graze against Lovett’s stomach.  “I bet you’re dying to reach down and jerk yourself off, aren’t you.  But you won’t, because I told you to keep your hands on the wall and you’re so good, you’re so good for me, aren’t you?”

Lovett whines, pushing his ass back against Jon.

“You’ll just stand there and let me use your body, because that’s all you want, right?  You just want me to use you however I want, whatever way it makes me happy.  You’re such a good boy, Lovett.”  Jon can feel Lovett shaking under his hands, his thighs trembling as he struggles to keep them pressed tightly together.  “Everyone thinks you’re such a brat, careless and loud and rude, but they don’t know how good you can be.  That’s just for me, isn’t it?”

Lovett is lost, nodding wildly, his hands clenching onto nothing but slick, flat tile.  Jon smiles, reaching lower to grab Lovett’s cock in a loose grip.  Lovett squirms under him but doesn’t move, keeps his thighs together.  “Good boy,” Jon whispers again, tightening his grip.  “You can come when I do.”

Jon strokes in times with his thrusts, faster and faster, his grip tightening as he feels his own orgasm near.  “Fuck, I love you,” Jon moans, his free hand sliding from Lovett’s shoulder to his arm to his side and back again.  “You’re amazing, you’re everything, I love you,” he rambles, barely knowing what he’s saying.  Lovett is gasping and twisting under him, his entire body seemingly one taut muscle.  Finally, Jon twists his hand around Lovett’s cock and orders “ _now_ ”.  Lovett comes with a long groan, and Jon thrusts twice more between Lovett’s thighs before he’s coming, too.

“Fuck,” Lovett says hoarsely, turning around and wrapping his arms around Jon tightly.  He ducks his head into Jon’s shoulder and hides his face, taking deep breaths.  Jon squeezes tight around him, holding him close as Lovett trembles.

They finish their shower, wrap themselves in towels, and crawl into bed.  Lovett wraps himself around Jon, resting his head on Jon’s arm and tangling their legs together.  “I love you, too,” he mumbles, as they drift off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

They spend an extra day in Denver, preparing for their venture out east.  Jon rationalizes that it’ll take time to gather the necessary supplies and information, but secretly he admits he’s delaying the inevitable.  He tries not to think of what lies outside the city perimeter - destruction, devastation, millions of people who will know who they are and what they’re setting out to do.

So when they wake up the next morning, he turns to Lovett and says they should take another day to properly prepare.  Lovett agrees easily.  “Great, that means we can sleep a little longer,” he says, snuggling closer into Jon and tangling their legs together.  Jon doesn’t sleep, just lays there with his hand in Lovett’s curls and listens to him breathe.  In, out.  In, out.

When they get down to the lobby, a young woman is waiting for them.  She’s dressed, rather incongruously, in a power suit and heels, with neatly styled hair and manicured nails.  She looks entirely out of place in this new world, where around the corner a building is half-caved in from a bomb, and they had maneuvered around piles of rubble to find parking for their borrowed Subaru.

“Favreau?  Lovett?” she calls, standing as they enter the lobby.  

“Yes?”  Lovett answers, curious.

“Oh, good.  I’m Meghan, I work for Congresswoman DeGette.  She’d like to see you both.”  Jon and Lovett exchange a look – DeGette had been part of an early, failed attempt to establish a Congress-in-Exile on the West Coast.  She’s been based largely out of her home state since early the previous year, with a growing reputation for her military command prowess.  Rumor has it she was instrumental in pushing Joe Arpaio's brigade out of Colorado last year.  Perhaps this is just a courtesy call while they’re in the same town, but it’s possible she has something to tell them.

“Yeah, sure,” Jon agrees, nodding.

“Great,” Meghan says, picking up her bag and coat.  “I’ll drive.”

“Shotgun,” Lovett says quickly.  Meghan shoots him a small smile.

Jon sits in the backseat and stares out the window as Meghan navigates through the city.  Denver is utterly transformed.  Temporary barracks have been put up in every available lot, it seems, to house the swelling population of displaced citizens.  Several buildings have been destroyed by airstrikes, and everywhere he looks Jon can see broken windows.  He can even see bullet holes in the walls of some buildings, as well as – yes, some of those dark patches are probably bloodstains.  

Nothing is more striking, however, than the people.  They sit on the sidewalks, on steps, wander seemingly without direction in the hundreds – a city of atrophy.  Denver has always been a big city, bustling and busy.  Jon has visited several times, both for work and pleasure, and has always enjoyed its fun, active, easy-going energy.  Now, though, Denver is three times as full and despairingly quiet.  The vibrancy has bled away, leaving the city a pale, muted version of itself.  At a stop sign Jon finds himself locking eyes with a teenager wearing a winter coat and the weariness of a much older man.  Jon feels the teen’s eyes follow their car as they turn the corner, and wonders what he looks like to the young man.  Does Jon appear more present, better maintained, more composed?  Or does he also look like a shell of the person he once was, the person he could have been?

“Here we are,” Meghan says, cutting off Jon’s thoughts and something Lovett had been saying about the day he spent staffing DeGette during Clinton’s ‘08 campaign.  They get out of the car and follow her up to a nondescript house on the quiet street.  She knocks twice and opens the door, ushering them in.

“There they are,” DeGette says, standing as they walk into the living room.  She shakes their hands and offers them each a warm smile.  “I heard we might be seeing you in these parts.  How are you two?”

“Oh, we’re _great_ ,” Lovett says brightly.  “Things couldn’t be better.  Just living our best lives.”

DeGette chuckles, gesturing to them to sit.  “Do you guys want coffee?  Water?”

“Coffee would be great, thanks,” Jon says as he takes a seat.  DeGette nods at Meghan, who leaves them.   

DeGette smiles warmly.  “Well, you both certainly seem in good health,” she says cheerfully.  Everything about her is charm and geniality.  Jon marvels that this is the same woman who allegedly coordinated the successful assault on six nationalist holdouts throughout Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona on the same day.  

“Eating our vegetables and everything,” Lovett replies.    
  
“Great, great.  Now tell me about how you intend to get to Chicago.” 

Jon’s spine straightens.  “You know?”

“I saw the President three days ago,” she confirms.

“Do you – ” Lovett pauses, then continues.  “What did he tell you?”

DeGette meets his gaze steadily.  “Enough.  I know you’re going to Chicago, I know you’re going to meet up with Axelrod, and I know that the President believes this mission is one of our last chances to turn the tide.”  Her eyes slide over to Jon.  “I can put two and two together.”

Jon exhales shakily.  “Yeah, okay.  To be perfectly honest, that’s pretty much all we know, as well.”  The implications have been made clear enough, but no one has yet said the words out loud.   _Assassination_.  Even today, even in a country pockmarked from explosions and devastation, the very idea is repulsive to Jon.  He still, on some level, believes in the foundation this country has rested on for centuries. 

And yet, Lincoln’s words swim through his mind, unbidden. _Should all laws but one be obeyed…_

Meghan brings them coffee and leaves again, shutting the door behind her.  “So,” DeGette says briskly.  “How are you getting to Chicago?”

“Driving?” Lovett says, confused.

She laughs.  “No, I mean, which route?  You can’t take the highways.”  At their confused expression, a shadow crosses her face.  “Oh, god.  You really have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”

Jon feels the familiar knot in his stomach twist.  “How bad is it?”

“It’s bad,” DeGette says bluntly.  “The highways are traps.  There are checkpoints and roadblocks all along the interstates.  You’ll get stopped a dozen times at least, and someone will eventually recognize you.”

“But - Obama just came that way.”

“With six tanks and his own air cover,” DeGette retorts.  “They fought their way through and lost some people on the way.”

Chills run down Jon’s spine.  “He didn’t say anything about that.”

DeGette looks at him sympathetically.  “I guess he didn’t realize how relatively safe it is on the West Coast.”

Lovett bristles.  “Sure, _safe_ is definitely the word I’d use for the militias that keep popping out of the dirt in eastern Oregon.  Or the enclave of Nazis that just won’t _fucking die_ near Sacramento, or the fact that the nationalists in Idaho are turning our eastern border into Swiss cheese up there.”

DeGette sighs.  “I’m not saying there’s not hard fighting to be had everywhere, but guys, it’s just different in the middle of the country.  You’re either in nationalist territory, or active war zones.  There are no safe zones.  You wanna know what’s between here and Chicago?  A thousand miles, twenty-seven different military bases all under Trump’s control, and millions of people with guns.”  She looks back and forth between them, and then her tone softens.  “Most people out there don’t want a fight, okay?  They want to live their lives and take care of their kids.  But everyone’s scared.  So even if you encounter the peaceful ones out there, there’s no telling what they’ll do if they find a couple known Obama associates armed to the teeth.  So listen to me when I tell you - _be careful._ ”

“Okay, okay,” Lovett says after a long minute, shaken.  “Tell us.  Tell us everything.  What do we need to know?”

DeGette nods, and speaks.

 

* * *

 

 

They set out while it’s still dark the next morning.  Neither of them had been able to sleep well after their frankly terrifying session with DeGette.  Finally, at around four in the morning, they had given up and packed their things.  By five they had left the outer perimeter established around Denver.  Jon feels Lovett sit up straighter as they drive into the exposed, open unknown.

They drive for a long time in silence.  Jon would think Lovett had fallen asleep, if not for the fact that his breathing remains shallow, alert.  Two years of war have taught him to stay still, silent, his eyes scanning the landscape for threats ( _left, ahead, right, ahead again_ ).  Jon flashes back to the how Lovett, before the war, was almost never still.  Even when they recorded the pod he was constantly shifting, crossing and uncrossing his legs, his hands dancing in front of him.  Now, Lovett is perfectly still in the passenger seat – tense, nervous energy locking his muscles into place.  

Two years of war, and Jon is still amazed at how many different ways his heart can break.

The sun is rising as they reach the exit ramp for US-36.  They take it. 

(“No interstates,” DeGette says.  “Surface streets are best, but you can also try your luck with smaller highways.”

“Do you have directions we should follow?”  Jon asks.  “We won’t have our phones turned on, so we won’t know which roads to take.”

DeGette gives him a measured look and puts a Rand McNally road atlas on the coffee table.  Lovett snorts.)

“Shit,” Lovett says, staring out the windshield.

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, feeling a dull horror settle over him.

They’re driving through what once must have been a town, except every building in their line of sight has been razed to the ground.  Jon can see hints of what once might have been - a strip mall here, a post office there, even the remains of the McDonald's golden arches, half-buried in rubble like the Statue of Liberty in _Planet of the Apes_.  Scattered throughout the remains of the town are tents and lean-tos.  Somehow, incredibly, people are still living here.  They’ve seen the effects of war already – buildings destroyed, bodies in the streets, the way the dust kicked up by tanks and bombs lingers in cities for weeks.  But never this – never this scale of destruction, never this utter resignation to a shadow of what was once an acceptable life. 

Town after town.  The sheer scope of what has happened to America reveals itself in miles, unfurling before them as they drive.

By the time they reach the border between Colorado and Kansas, Lovett is shaking with fury.  “They bombed American civilians.  They bombed _schools_ , and _hospitals_ ,” he says, enraged.  “How - how could they.  How _dare_ they.”

“You don’t know it was the White House,” Jon says, his jaw set.  “This could’ve been done by our side.”

“We wouldn’t,” Lovett insists, with a thread of uncertainty.

“Come on, Lovett,” Jon says bitterly.  “You saw what happened in LA.  You know what we’ve done up in Washington.  Tell me you think we’re above bombing a couple towns into oblivion if it means we can take out a handful of nationalist leaders.”

Lovett falls into an angry, sour silence.  

A sign indicates the Kansas border is a mile ahead, and Jon pulls off the freeway and onto the surface streets.

(“Be extra careful at the state borders,” DeGette warns.  “Especially the Colorado-Kansas border.  Once you’re in red territory, it’s easier to pass between states, but there’s a lot of suspicion of anyone coming from Colorado.”

“So what do you suggest,” Lovett asked.  “Should we get an extra big trampoline and try and jump across?”

DeGette smiled.  “Avoid the bigger roads, and try and get across on side streets.  If there’s a checkpoint there, it’ll probably be staffed by junior soldiers, who are less experienced and less alert.”)

Jon’s heart sinks as he sees the roadblock ahead.  He considers pulling a u-turn, but reasons that would be more likely to raise suspicions and get them into trouble.  “Heads up,” he mutters, and Lovett catches sight of the roadblock.  “Stay calm, I’ll do the talking,” Jon says, hoping his voice sounds calmer than he feels.  Lovett nods minutely.

They come to a stop in front of the barricade.  It’s unimpressive, to say the least – two beat-up police cars and a row of orange cones.  Three soldiers are posted there, with rifles on full display and impossibly young faces.

One soldier approaches them, his hand on the butt of his rifle.  Jon rolls down the window, shivering as cold air floods into the car.  He forces a small smile.  “Morning,” he greets the soldier, who doesn’t smile back.

“IDs?”  Jon hands over the fake licenses DeGette had somehow managed to have made during the day and a half they spent in Denver.  “Where are you heading?” he asks as he turns the identification cards over in his hands.

(“Where have you been in Kansas?” DeGette asks them. “Besides Kansas City.”  Jon and Lovett look back blankly, and she sighs.  “Okay, right.  Your story is that you’re going to Junction City.  No need to get elaborate with your story.  You’re from Burlington, and you’re going to Junction City.  Look at the map, memorize some street names and school names, and _don’t get cute_.”

“Excuse me,” Lovett says, affronted.  Jon elbows him.)

“Junction City,” Jon answers, forcing himself not to give any more information than what was strictly asked.  No need to get caught up in a lie if he can avoid it.

“You live there?” the soldier asks.

“My brother and his family,” Jon says.  

The soldier nods and walks back to his two companions.  Jon doesn’t look at Lovett, forces his face to remain neutral and his hands still, while the three soldiers confer.  He knows exactly where his gun is - under three coats in the backseat, butt of the rifle in reaching distance.  He also looks at the distance between the soldiers and their cars.  They might be able to out-distance them before they could get in their cars, but the soldiers might just open fire on them instead.

The soldier walks back to them.  “I like Junction City,” he says.  “They have a good burger joint with a drive-in theater attached.  The Dish, it’s called.  Have you been?”

“I’ve never actually been to Junction City,” Jon says, wary of hidden traps in this new strand of conversation.

The soldier seems unbothered, though.  “You should go, I think it’s still open.  They have really great homemade cookies.”

The kid is 21, 22 at most.  Jon wonders if he might have been in college when the war started – he certainly wasn’t an enlisted member of the actual military.  His uniform is shoddy, cobbled together from military surplus shops, most likely.  Jon can’t imagine this is how he imagined his life ending up - standing guard on an industrial street in fatigues two sizes too big.

“Yeah,” Jon says, trying to smile.  “Sure, that sounds great, I’ll see if it’s still open.”

“Go ahead, then,” the soldier says easily.  “Have a good visit with your brother.  And tell the Baxters that Patrick Gilbert says hey!”

Jon takes the cards and nods, and drives through the gap in the cones.  He feels unsettled, having been confronted suddenly by the humanity of the other side.  Obama’s words come to him unbidden, unwanted, _we are not a collection of red states and blue states_ … Jon shakes his head.  Pretty words, but he looks out at a world that belies the very fact of that vision.  

“Nice guy,” Lovett says drily.  “Think we should invite him on a double date?”

“You don’t know he’s homophobic,” Jon says, feeling a strange compulsion to defend the kid.  Patrick Gilbert.  He said his name was Patrick.

Lovett snorts.  “You’re right, let’s turn around and ask him.  Hey, maybe we’ve got it all wrong.  Maybe they’re all super nice and absolutely none of them want to string us up and throw rocks at us.”

Jon closes his eyes briefly.  “Lovett.”

“Think maybe we can just end the war right now?” Lovett continues, his voice rising.  “What if they’ve been right _all along_ and we’re all just special snowflakes who can’t handle a little bit of political incorrectness.”

“Please, just let’s drop it,” Jon grits, anger coiling in his gut.

“Sure, sure.  Drop it.  Hey look, there’s a Chevy pickup truck with a Trump 2016 bumper sticker on it,” Lovett says, pointing at a car parked on the side of the road.  “Let’s go knock on their front door and see how they feel about Muslims.”

“Would you just fucking shut up?” Jon snaps, furious.  “Can you please, for one fucking minute, just lay off?  God, you don’t have to prove your point all the time.”

An awful, nasty silence stretches out between them.

“Fine,” Lovett says quietly, his voice as sharp as a blade.  

Regret settles over Jon slowly, with each passing mile.  Minutes pass, then hours, in awful silence.  By mid-morning they’re halfway through Kansas, the sun is bright in the sky, and Jon is miserable.  Lovett sits with his forehead against the window, his shoulders hunched in and turned away from Jon.  

“Lovett,” he says quietly, tentatively.

“I haven’t said a word,” Lovett says, spite evident in every syllable.  

“I know, that’s – I didn’t mean - ” he sighs in frustration.  “Lovett, I’m sorry,”

“It’s fine,” Lovett says, still staring out the window.

“No, it’s not, I shouldn’t’ve said that.  I didn’t mean it.”

“Sure you did,” Lovett shrugs.  “Hey, man, it’s fine.  I know how I can be.  I’d probably tell me to shut up every day.”

Jon’s stomach twists, and he feels even worse than a moment ago.  “Lovett, no.  No.  I love listening to you talk.  Jesus, it’s the best part of my day, always has been.  Even before everything else was terrible, listening to you was one of my favorite things.”  

Lovett shifts, glancing briefly over at Jon.  “Well, don’t stop there,” Lovett says brusquely.  “Keep going.  What are your favorite things about my conversational style?”

Jon huffs a laugh, feeling the tension in his gut loosen.  “Is this my punishment?”

“Sure is,” Lovett says, raising one eyebrow and waving his hand.  “Come on, buddy, tell me how much you love my dulcet tones.”

“Well,” Jon says, shooting a wide smile over at Lovett.  “Listening to you talk is definitely my second favorite pastime to do with your mouth.”

“Har har,” Lovett says sarcastically.  “See if you get another blowjob from me anytime soon.”

Jon laughs, reaching over to thread their fingers together.  

 

* * *

 

 

Kansas looks pretty much as it ever has: flat, brown and dry.   

They’re driving through a small town when the church catches Jon’s eye.  There are small clusters of families walking in through the big double doors.  This church is nothing like the giant Catholic monstrosity his parents took him too as a child, an intimidating gothic structure in downtown Boston.  And yet there’s something achingly familiar about the tableau - mothers and fathers with little kids in hand, dressed in their Sunday best.

“It’s Sunday,” Jon says without thinking.

“Hmm?” Lovett asks, looking up.  He sees the people walking into church.  “Oh, yeah, I guess it is.”  He falls quiet, watching the church as they drive by it.  They continue on, leaving the small town behind and driving out into the empty, flat expanse once more.  Jon sees people working in fields as they pass the occasional farm.  Farms and fields, as far as the eye can see.  

They resign themselves to getting back on the interstate when they realize their only other options are dirt roads running through miles of backcountry.  They travel unmolested, however, perhaps being deep enough into red country that people are less suspicious, less likely to go looking for a fight.

Life in Kansas, it seems, has not borne the brunt of the war.  Jon wonders if it feels like a distant, unconnected thing to some of these people - content to live on their farms, and drink with their neighbors, and live quiet, unconflicted lives.  He resents their ability to live their lives uninterrupted, the foundations of his own life have been eroded so completely.  And yet he’s glad for them too, glad that some people in this country might still have some semblance of normalcy, of peace.

For an hour, driving in the hot midday sunlight with a local soft rock radio station playing quietly in the car, Jon can almost feel it too.   

Jon’s uneasiness rises once again as they approach Junction City.  They should’ve probably found a way around the city, but they’re low on gas and figure it’s their best chance of finding a station that won’t sell at an appalling markup.

(“Plus, I don’t want to accidentally wind up at the gas station run by the guys from _Deliverance_ , all right?” Lovett had pointed out.)

Unfortunately, the soldiers at the checkpoint outside Junction City are older, more experienced, and carrying bigger guns than the kids at their earlier stop.  

“Who are you visiting again?” the soldier says, eyeing them coldly.  

“My brother,” Jon repeats, hoping he sounds calm.  “Marcus.”  Lovett manages to barely, _barely_ contain a laugh.

“And you’ve never visited Junction City before?”

“No, sir,” Jon says.  Then, before he can think twice: “We’ve heard there’s a great burger joint, though.  The Dish?  That’s where we’re meeting him.”

He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he says it, knows that he’s offered too much information, sounded too desperate.  The soldier’s eyes narrow and he walks back to the checkpoint.

“Dude,” Lovett hisses.

“I know,” Jon whispers, dread rising.  “I know, that was stupid.”

A long moment later the soldier walks back.  Behind him another soldier is climbing into a car.

“Edwards here is going to show you how to get to the Dish,” the soldier says, a hard glint in his eyes.  “She can make sure you meet up with your brother.  Sound good? 

Jon feels a smile freeze on his face.  “Sure.  Hey, thanks man,” he says, his heart pounding in his throat.

(“Don’t stop anywhere, if you can avoid it,” DeGette says.  “Try and keep on the roads, get gas as quickly as you can, and eat food in your car.  You just don’t know who you might run afoul of.”)

They roll up the windows and follow Edwards in her car.  Jon grips the steering wheel tight and considers their options.  He could peel off at the first opportunity, drive as fast as he can and see if there’s a break in the perimeter around the city.  They could ditch the car and try and run on foot, find somewhere to lay low.  They have their guns in the backseat - they could take Edwards by surprise if they came out firing.

All terrible options.  All resulting in them running for their lives while deep in enemy territory, surrounded on all sides.  Lovett is frozen next to him, only his shallow, rapid breathing giving away his distress.  Jon feels completely, horrifyingly helpless as he continues to follow Edwards.  

A disjointed Louis CK joke pops into his head (“ _Where are we going?”  “To your death, statistically!”_ ) and he finds himself laughing out loud.  Lovett startles and looks over at him.

“Sorry,” Jon says, still grinning.  “Sorry, it’s not funny at all." 

“Sure it is,” Lovett says, starting to smile.  “Come on, did you ever think, of all the places we would die, it would be at a drive-in theater in fucking _Junction City, Kansas_?”  His hands are waving, performing at indignance as Jon laughs harder.  “I mean, we were at the LAX battle and fought at the Siege of San Francisco.  The goddamn injustice of it all!”

“We probably should’ve campaigned harder here in 2012,” Jon says.

“Are you kidding?  If we’re going to die here I’m mad we fought for a single fucking vote.  What did the people of Kansas ever do for Obama?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“Yeah, well, Obama did plenty for Kansas,” Lovett grumbles.  “Health care.  Education funding.  Not starting the apocalypse.”

“Fair point,” Jon says.

“And this is how they repay us,” Lovett says as they pull into a parking lot.  Jon’s mouth goes dry as he looks at the nondescript building, _The Dish_ painted in looping scrawl on the hunter-grey wall.

Edwards gets out of her car and stands with her arms crossed, watching them.  With no choice to do otherwise, Jon and Lovett get slowly out of the car and cross the lot.  Jon doesn’t reach his hand into his jacket pocket, but can feel the weight of his handgun with every step.  He wonders if they should take their chance now - shoot Edwards and race back to the car.  Once they’re inside, he doesn’t like their chances of shooting their way back outside.

They go inside.

Lovett marches them right up to the bar.  “Morning, sir!  How about a couple beers for my friend and I while we wait for his brother to join us?”  Jon fights every instinct in his body to not slap a hand over Lovett’s mouth.

The man behind the counter narrows his eyes.  “It’s Sunday morning.”

“I’ve never been big into Bloody Marys,” Lovett says in a confessional tone.

The man sighs.  “No, I mean it’s Sunday morning.  We don’t serve alcohol before noon on Sundays.”

Jon closes his eyes briefly.  “Right, right.  Sorry about that, we’ll just take a couple coffees.”

He grabs Lovett by the elbow and steers him to an empty table in the middle of the room, with sightlines to three possible exits.  Edwards follows them, her eyes narrowed.

They sit, Edwards holding her rifle in her lap and glaring at them both.  “So,” she says, speaking for the first time.  “I take it your brother isn’t here yet?”

Jon forces a smile.  “He should be here soon.  We said we’d meet at one, which is – ” he glances at the clock on the wall “ - still a couple hours away.”

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to wait with us this whole time,” Lovett says genially.  “Marcus can be a real flake, he may not be here for several hours.”

Edwards watches them coolly.  “I’m good here, thanks.”

The bartender walks up with a carafe of coffee and three mugs.  “You said you’re Marcus’s brother?” he asks, looking at Jon.  “He was here a little while ago, asked me to tell you he’d be late today.”

Jon stares at him.  Lovett kicks his shin.  “Ow!  Oh!  Oh, yes.  You spoke with him?”

“Yep, he said he had to go out of town and pick up your cousin.  Apparently her car broke down in Ogden.”

“Sure,” Jon says, his heart pounding.  “Sure, Carol’s car is a piece of shit.”

The bartender snorts.  “Yeah, that’s what Marcus said, too.  You even look like him.”  He looks over at Edwards and smiles warmly.  “Bonnie, you can head on back, I know you’ve got important things to do.  I can watch out for these two.”

Edwards looks at him uncertainly, then back at Jon and Lovett.  “You sure, Mike?”

“I’m here all day,” Mike confirms, waving his hand at the half-full restaurant.  “I’ll give you a ring if they cause any trouble.”

Edwards hesitates, then nods and stands.  She shoots a glare at Lovett before she heads for the door.  As soon as she’s gone, Mike turns back to them with a smile.  “You boys like omelets?  My wife makes great omelets.”

“Y-yeah,” Jon stutters, heart still pounding from their most recent narrow escape.  “I mean, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mike shrugs.  “Mer!  Two sausage omelets and home fries!”

“Don’t shout at me!” a voice shouts from the kitchen.  He grins.  

“Mind if I join you?” Mike asks, already pulling out a chair.  Jon stares at him, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened.  “So, what brings you two to Junction City?  Because I know you’re not meeting any brother out here.”

Lovett exhales.  “Yeah, yeah.  Thanks for that, we really appreciate it.”

“Why?” Jon asks, wincing at how rude he sounds.  “Sorry, I mean - thank you, really.  I’m just not sure why you’d help us out?”

Mike looks at them steadily.  “You know I voted for Obama twice?”  He smiles.  “Thought he was fantastic.  Still do, in fact.  I took my kids to see Kansas City when you all came to Missouri.”

It takes a long minute for his meaning to sink in, and the Jon is sinking back in his chair.  “You know who we are, then.”

“I know who you are,” he tells Jon, then looks over at Lovett.  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I remember you.”

“Story of my life,” Lovett sighs, then sticks out his hand.  “Lovett.  Nice to meet you, Mike.  Thanks for, you know, saving our lives.”

Mike grins, shakes his hand.  “Anytime.”

A woman - Meredith, presumably, comes out with a few plates of food.  Mike rises to take the tray from her and they exchange some brief words.  With a considering glance back at the two of them, she nods and heads to the back of the restaurant.

“Here you boys are,” Mike says, putting the plates down.  Jon’s mouth waters, and it occurs to him they haven’t really eaten since yesterday morning.  Lovett immediately digs in, groaning in pleasure.  Mike laughs, sitting back down.

“So, um,” Jon says awkwardly around a mouthful of food.  “Has it been difficult here, as a Democrat?”

“Oh, I’m not a Democrat, son,” Mike laughs.  “Republican my whole life.  But I’m also not an idiot, and your man was something special.”  

“Yeah,” Jon says, smiling despite himself.  “Yeah, he was.  Still is.”  He pauses, eyeing Mike.  “Should I ask who you voted for in 2016?”

Mike shrugs.  “If you’re prepared to not like the answer, go for it.”

Jon looks over at Lovett, who’s glaring daggers at Mike.  “Well, look,” he says, casting around for a response.  “I don’t think anyone could’ve predicted this.”

“Plenty of people predicted this!” Lovett bursts out.  Jon knocks his knee.  “Sorry,” Lovett says sharply, then sighs.  “Sorry.  Sorry,” he says, sounding more genuine.  

Mike looks at them, then speaks in a quiet, steady voice.  “I can assure you both, if I’d had any idea what would happen, I’d have shot the man myself.”  And there’s really not much to say to that.  

Meredith comes out of the back office.  “Rachel is here,” she tells Mike, who nods and stands.

“Well, time for you both to be on your way,” he says.  Jon and Lovett exchange a look as they stand.  “My daughter is going to drive with you to the checkpoint.  You can drop her in Grandview Plaza once you’re out.”  

“That’s really great of you all, but that’s not necessary,” Jon protests.  “We just need to get gas then we’re on our way.”

Mike shakes his head.  “People here know Rachel.  You’re safer with her in the car.  And she knows who’s working which checkpoints.”

Jon exhales, nods.  “Okay, well.”  He sticks his hand out to Mike.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck, boys,” Mike says, shaking their hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Rachel, it turns out, is thirteen years old and a total brat.  Jon is horrified.  Lovett is smitten.

“Your parents are really going to let you drive off with two strangers out of the city?”  Jon says as he pulls out onto the street.  

Rachel rolls her eyes.  “This is Kansas, not New York.  I hitchhiked to Oklahoma when I was nine to see my cousin.”

“Okay, first of all, we’re not from New York,” Lovett says, turning around to speak directly to her.  “And second of all, that’s so cool, I want to write a screenplay about a fucking hitchhiking nine-year old.”

“Lovett,” Jon says sharply.

“Hey, I’ve heard the f-word before,” Rachel says.

“See, Jon, she’s heard the f-word before.”  Lovett shifts his seat back so he can face her more easily.  “Do you listen to podcasts?”

“Uh, no, we read books,” she says.  

Lovett is grinning widely.  “Hey, don’t knock podcasts.  I read books too, but podcasts are the new frontier of storytelling.  Take it from me, I’m a media mogul.”

Jon grins, listening to Lovett prattle on, drawing Rachel into a conversation about his favorite books as a kid.  It’s been so long, he realizes, since they’ve talked about anything that wasn’t in some way connected to the war, or politics, or the salted earth state of their lives.  Jon loves so many versions of Lovett - angry, impassioned, bitingly sarcastic.  But this version, bright and exuberant, bubbling up like champagne, this is a version of Lovett he’s been missing.  The man currently several sentences into a treatise about the Baby-Sitters Club series, which of course he’s read and has deep thoughts on.  

Rachel taps on Jon’s shoulder.  “Is he always this weird?”

“Yes,” Jon says immediately, with deep fondness.

“Cool,” she shrugs.

“Wanna come to Chicago with us?” Lovett asks.

“...no,” Rachel says, firmly.

 

* * *

 

 

They make it through the checkpoint and drop Rachel off with no further problems.  Jon can’t fight of the feeling of deep discomfort as they leave her hitchhiking on the side of the highway, but she rolls her eyes and waves them on.  “No one will pick me up if you’re loitering!” she shouts at them, so Jon reluctantly waves and drives off.  Lovett lets out a low whimper, looking through the back window at her retreating figure.

“I love her,” he says glumly.  

“You can’t keep her, she has parents,” Jon replies reasonably.

“Yeah,” Lovett sighs.

Somehow, miraculously it seems, they make it through Missouri without being stopped once.  They skirt wide circles around Kansas City, and then St. Louis, staying to smaller freeways the whole way.  The winter sun is low in the sky when they cross into Illinois, their breaths held as they find an unoccupied road on the border.

(“Try to avoid checkpoints on the Illinois border,” DeGette says.  “Most of them are our guys, but some nationalists disguise themselves as resistance fighters and set up fake checkpoints.  You can’t really trust anyone along that border.  In fact, nothing outside of the greater Chicago area is a sure thing.”

“Great,” Lovett says.  “I was hoping there would be more bad news.”)

The sun is long gone and the moon high in the sky by the time they see the exit sign for Chicago.  Lovett lets out a small, pained sound, and Jon’s heart leaps.  They left Denver only that morning, but it feels like his heart has been beating triple time since they left, living every minute like an hour.  Chicago feels like an oasis in a desert - there, there in front of them, is safety.  

How much they once took for granted.  How cavalierly they once treated their freedom to move safely, sleep deeply, breathe fully.

The checkpoint is the most heavily guarded one yet.  Jon counts sixteen soldiers as they drive up, and can see a handful of tanks and armored vehicles beyond the gate.  They roll to a stop.

“ID?” the soldier says, shining a flashlight into the car.  They hand over their licenses - real, this time.  She glances at them, does a double take.

“Jon Lovett?” she says, ducking her head to see into the passenger seat.

“Present!” Lovett says, raising a hand.

Amazingly, the soldier grins.  “Straight shooter, widely respected on all sides?”

A shocked second of silence follows, then Jon and Lovett burst out laughing together.  That whole time of their life feels like a surreal fever dream anymore.  Months spent joking and laughing about Trump, watching the world burn in slow motion while roasting marshmallows on the flames.  Lovett grins cheekily.  “Friend of the Pod?”

“Guess so,” she shrugs, smiling.  She hands their licenses back and waves to the guard at the barrier, who starts to raise it.  “Thought you guys were great.”

“ _I_ still am,” Lovett confides.  “This guy is a broken husk of who he once was.”

Jon rolls his eyes at the soldier.  “Thanks,” he says, putting the car into drive.  “Have a great night.”

“And don’t forget to download the Cash App!” Lovett shouts as they drive away.  

 

* * *

 

 

It’s nearing midnight when they arrive at City Hall, directed there by a series of signs ( _“Check in at City Hall for Billeting and Supplies”_ ).  As they’re leaving, apartment assignment in hand, Lovett points out a 24-hour diner down the block.

“Grab a bite before we hit the sack?” he asks, already heading to the brightly lit establishment.  

Jon sighs, feeling the exhaustion in his bones, but he follows Lovett.  A burger does sound good, he admits.  They grab menus on their way to the booth, although Jon doesn’t see the point.  He’s going to get a burger, medium rare, with curly fries, and Lovett will get a club sandwich and eat most of Jon’s curly fries.

Jon groans as he sits down, sinking into the cracked vinyl booth as if it were the finest feather bed.  “God, I’m tired,” he complains, closing his eyes.  

“I don’t know why,” Lovett says distractedly, studying the menu.  “We just drove through a thousand miles of war-torn enemy territory today.”

“We need to figure out how to get in touch with Axe,” Jon sighs, struggling to sit up straight.  “I guess we’ll just go to City Hall tomorrow and see if we can track down someone who knows where he is.”

“Maybe Rahm will be there,” Lovett says, putting the menus down and signaling the waitress.  “He’s got to be in on this, too, don’t you think?”

“Probably,” Jon agrees.  “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Or you can talk to him tonight,” a voice says from the booth behind him.  Jon’s heart jumps as he recognizes the nasal tone and drawl.  He whips around to see Harry Enten smiling at him.  

“Hi, Jons,” Harry says with a small wave.  “I think we’ve got some stuff to talk about.”


	6. Chapter 6

Chalk up one more surreal experience for Jon’s bizarre new reality: sitting across from Harry Enten in a Chicago diner as he sips a bright orange soda, a semi-automatic rifle propped up in the booth next to him.

The thing is that Jon never really spent much time with Harry, before.  They tweeted at each other occasionally, and ran into each other at a few industry events throughout the last election.  Once he and Tommy got drinks with Harry, Clare, and Micah when they were in New York, but Harry was always a friend of a friend.  The quirky kid from the other podcast, someone Jon thought of only in very specific contexts ( _podcast, data, Nate Silver, didn’t he used to send me emails about snow?_ ).  It feels like a genre swap that doesn’t quite work, like mixing up pieces from Risk with a game of Clue.  Harry Enten, in the diner, during the apocalypse, with a gun.

“I can’t believe you two fucknuts made it across the Death Plains without getting your heads shot off.”

And Rahm Emanuel.

“Okay, no one told us they were called the fucking _Death Plains_ before sending us on our merry way,” Lovett protests.  “And Kansas was great, we made friends.  Because we’re goddamned delightful.  Also there’s this kid there who’s meaner than you, she’s awesome.”

“We did almost die in Junction City,” Jon points out.  If they’re going to have a story about surviving the Death Plains (seriously, what the fuck) he wants credit for every treacherous mile.  “Also on our way to Denver,” he adds as an afterthought.  Rahm stares at them, as if wondering how the President placed such critically important responsibilities on their shoulders.  To be fair, Jon has been having that thought in some form or another since 2009.  

“How did you two – ” Jon starts, looking back and forth between Harry and Rahm.  “Harry, what are you doing in Chicago?”

“What are any of us doing in Chicago?” Harry asks expansively.  “Isn’t life just one of those strange journeys we all take?”  Jon rolls his eyes, and Harry smiles.  “I’ve been here since last summer.  I was deployed up to Canada to set up a supply convoy route through Michigan, and got pulled into some work out of the Mayor’s office.”

“He’s my right-hand man these days,” Rahm says.  Jon and Lovett get a good laugh out of that, because it’s a pretty funny joke all things considered.  Rahm stares back at them with the same stone-carved look on his face he’s been wearing since he stormed into the diner five minutes earlier.

“Wait, seriously?” Lovett asks, looking over at Harry.  

Harry shrugs.  “I seem to be indispensable.”

“Whiz kid indeed,” Rahm says, clapping Harry on the shoulder.  “He’s helped me plan out a dozen and a half raids on nationalist strongholds in the area.  Every single one was successful.”  Jon has seen, heard, and done a lot of crazy things in the last two years.  This might top the list.

“What kind of bizarro fucking universe is this?” Lovett asks in amazement.  “I mean, we named our podcast in _jest_ , right?  We didn’t actually ever think that podcasters would be responsible for saving the world?  Like, is Terri Gross conducting the gentlest fucking interrogations somewhere in the backwoods of Pennsylvania?”

“She’s running sniper ops with Ira Glass in southern Virginia,” Harry tells them, tipping a packet of sugar into his soda.

“ _Really?_ ” Jon asks, before he can stop himself.

“No, you imbecile,” Rahm groans.  “You must – and I say this with love, because I do love you kids – you must stop being such goddamned fucking morons.  You hold the fate of the entire world in your soft, incompetent hands, god help us all.”  

“Aw, we missed you, too,” Lovett grins.

Jon chuckles and turns back to Harry.  “I heard Nate made it safely to Canada last year – have you been in touch?”

“A bit,” Harry says, his eyes sad.  “I don’t use many modes of electronic communication anymore, but sometimes I email him.  He’s doing okay.”  He picks at his empty sugar packet, shoulders hunched.  “I see Clare sometimes – she’s in Pennsylvania.”  Jon notices the pregnant negative in Harry’s news, and a chill races down his spine.

“Jody?” Lovett asks tentatively, his eyes worried.  Jon’s stomach drops as Harry’s face pulls tight and closed.

“He went on a raid eight months ago and hasn’t been heard from since,” Harry says flatly, not looking at either of them.  “He’s probably dead.”

Grief rises in Jon’s throat as he thinks about the last time he saw Jody – early in 2017, one of the last times he and Lovett made it out to New York.  Jody had taken them out for drinks and darts, wrapped them both in big hugs at the end of the night, and grinned widely at them as he waved goodbye on the sidewalk.

Lovett doesn’t speak, looking out the window onto the dark street and blinking rapidly.  Jon squeezes his forearm and looks at Harry, hunched over in the corner of his booth with a blank look on his face.  “I’m really sorry, Harry,” Jon tells him, his famed oratory skills deserting him.  Words are empty, useless things, he thinks, self-loathing coursing through him.  Their fucking egos.  They thought they were heroes, warriors in suits.   _Pod Save America_ , he thinks angrily.  What did they ever do, but make inevitable this violent division, this severing of two Americas?  His words never saved lives, they didn’t stop this war, and they can’t even help Harry now, as he sits weighed down by his grief across the table.

Harry shoots him a small, sad smile, and Jon hates himself even more.

They sit in silence for several long minutes, until the waitress brings their food.  Jon stares at his burger.  He finds he has no appetite.

“Wait,” Lovett says, looking up at Rahm.  “Wait, you said we hold the fate of the world in our hands.”

“Don’t let it get to your head, you’re probably going to fuck it up,” Rahm tells them around a mouthful of food.  It takes Jon a moment to catch on.

“You know what we’re here to do?”  Jon asks tentatively.

Rahm nods.  “You’re here to see Axe.”

Lovett shoots a tight, uncomfortable look at Jon.  “Maybe?”  Jon considers how they might talk around the topic, say what they need to say without admitting to anything.  Years of war have taught them all the value of speaking obliquely, carving empty spaces with their words that can be filled in by the other party.

“You’re here to see Axe so he can tell you who can lead you to the person in Trump’s inner circle, so that person can get you access to the orange dildo and so someone can fucking kill him already,” Rahm says, chewing on a french fry.

Or you can just not give a shit, Jon concedes.  “Maybe keep our voices down?” he asks, uncomfortable.  He’s spent the last few days trying to avoid directly considering what they’re planning to do, preferring instead to imagine he and Lovett are simply on the world’s worst road trip.  He’s scared, sure – if he allows himself to really think this through, they’re on a suicide mission with a very low chance of success.  But the core of his unease, the reason his stomach knots uncomfortably every time he remembers what they’ve been charged with doing, rises from the act itself.  Assassination – such a cold-blooded, premeditated act.  The word itself suggests something clean and quiet, a muffled gunshot from a safe distance.  Jon has killed people in defense, and in battle, but this is murder.

“Get it together, Favreau,” Rahm says, as if hearing Jon’s inner monologue.  “This is no time to be precious about ugly facts.  I’ve been hoping this job would’ve been long finished by our incompetent fucking CIA.”

“Or McDonalds,” Lovett mutters.  

“Sure, or autoerotic asphyxiation, or falling off the top of his own goddamned building.  But here we are, he’s still alive, and apparently it’s going to fall to you two assholes because that’s how dire things have gotten.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Jon offers, irritated.  It’s not like they asked for this responsibility, after all.  Jon would be perfectly happy running guns and maps between Portland and Boise for the rest of this miserable war.  He and Lovett could build a life in Oregon together, or maybe head back to California.  Claim a piece of land, build a house and a garden, adopt a few dogs.  (He pushes thoughts of Leo and Pundit away, locks them in the same box with Tommy and Dan, Andy and his parents, and other things that are too difficult or sad to think about.)

“Sorry, cupcake,” Rahm waves his hand.  “I’ve got a city to hold and a bunch of assholes in Michigan to shoot.  I’m making it my personal mission to round up every Obama-Obama-Trump supporter and shoot them in the head.”

Jon is pretty sure that’s a war crime, and he’s also pretty sure Rahm is joking, but mostly he’s deeply disturbed that he is having to contemplate either question.  This moment, this diner, this conversation - what series of events had to transpire to bring them here?  He stares down at the white paper placemat crinkling under his hands, and feels a sudden burst of fury at how unfair life had turned out to be.  For all of them.

Lovett presses his leg to Jon’s under the table.  Jon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  He looks sideways at Lovett, his eyes tracing the lines around his mouth and the grown out curls spilling over his forehead.  At least Jon still has this, his one good thing.  

“So, is Axe here?” Lovett asks.  He doesn’t look at Jon, but leans imperceptibly into his side, pressing their shoulders together.

“Nope,” Harry tells them.  “He got called away to Canada, won’t be back for a few weeks.”

Jon’s heart sinks.  They hadn’t discussed a timeline for this mission with Obama - in fact, he’s pretty sure Obama doesn’t know himself if they have a deadline.  But Jon imagines they’re working against a ticking clock - a closing window of opportunity.

“Rahm can help you, though,” Harry supplies.  “He knows where you should head next.”

“You know who can get us access to Trump?” Lovett asks Rahm.

Rahm shakes his head.  “No, but I know who knows.  Or,” he corrects, considering.  “At least, I know who knows who knows.”  Jon sighs, tipping his head back against the booth, and wonders if this whole thing could be some elaborate practical joke.  Rahm grins.  “I know, I know.  World’s worst scavenger hunt, right?”

“You’re telling me,” Jon mutters, keeping his eyes closed.  He’s pretty sure he could fall asleep on this ugly vinyl bench, Lovett propping him up.

“Well,” Lovett prompts.  “Are you going to make us guess, or will you tell us who we should be talking to?”

“It’s Sherrod Brown,” Rahm tells them.  “You’re going to have to go to Columbus.”

Jon’s heart sinks.  That means going through Ohio, and that also means going through Pennsylvania to get to the East Coast.  It had been a slim chance, but he’d been praying they could cut up through Canada after reaching Chicago.  Every corner of the country had been visited by vicious fighting, but none more so than the Rust Belt industrial states, where families and communities have torn each other to shreds in the two years since the war began.  No one could be certain, but general wisdom holds that more blood has been spilled per square mile in Pennsylvania than in any other state in the country.  Most people believe the only reason Philadelphia hasn’t been carpet bombed already is because of the high concentration of nationalists in and around the city.

“Don’t worry,” Rahm says, upending an obscene amount of ketchup onto his fries.  “Jason Kander is heading east, and said you could ride with his convoy.  You’ll be sitting pretty in a tank the whole way to Columbus.”

Jon and Lovett exchange a look.  “What about Pennsylvania?”

A shadow flits over Rahm’s face.  “I’m sure Sherrod will help you figure something out.”  

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Lovett says, his face pale.  “We’re going to get shot as soon as we get outside of Pittsburgh.”

“Don’t be silly,” Rahm says, his eyes crinkling.  “You’ll get shot in Pittsburgh.”  Jon snorts, even though the fear is still knotting up his stomach.

“When is Kander leaving?” he asks.  Maybe they can have a day or two in Chicago.  They could sleep, maybe even see the First Lady…

“Tomorrow morning,” Harry says, and Jon groans.  “Cheer up, it’ll be fun!  I’ve gone on a couple of runs with Jason, he has good snacks.”

As Harry signals the waitress, Jon tips over onto Lovett’s shoulder and closes his eyes.  Lovett’s arm wraps around his back and pulls him in tight, and he lets himself drift for a moment while Harry asks for a takeaway box for his full, uneaten meal.

 

* * *

 

“Jon?” Lovett’s voice is a whisper across his skin.  Jon keeps his eyes closed but mumbles a response.  “We could turn back, you know.”

Jon’s eyes open, looking up at the dark ceiling.  Lovett is curled into his side, his hand warm on his stomach and his knee tucked between Jon’s legs.  He doesn’t want to respond, doesn’t want to bring this discussion into their bed.  Let it just be the two of them for a moment - no war, no guns, no death.  Just Lovett’s skin, and Lovett’s arms, and Lovett’s hair, soft under Jon’s hand.

“Look, I know the President asked us to do this, but we don’t have to be the ones to carry it through, right?  We’ve carried the message this far - Kander can take the go-ahead to Sherrod, who can pass it along to whoever the fuck he’s in touch with.  We don’t need to…” Lovett trails off, and Jon fills the rest in silently. _Drive through Pennsylvania, probably die, murder the President of the United States._

Jon lets himself indulge the fantasy for a moment.  A farm in northern California, a dog, maybe even adopting a child or two - there are no shortage of kids who need homes in this wretched new world they live in.  He imagines their lives, full of long, sun-dappled days, teaching their daughters to read and braid hair and play piano.  Those versions of themselves could carve out a little slice of peace.  They could be happy.

But.  “We can’t,” he says, his hand running up Lovett’s arm, down his back.  “This is our job to do.”  Jon has a few unshakeable truths, fundamental load-bearing beams that form the very core of who he is.  He is a New England Democrat, with all it entails.  He loves Jon Lovett.  And he will follow Barack Obama to the ends of the earth.  The President gave him a job, and he will see it through.

Lovett sighs, curling in more tightly.  “I know.”  He sounds unsurprised, not even disappointed.  More like he was just confirming a fact he already assumed to be true.  

Jon seizes Lovett’s shoulders and rolls them over, pushing himself up on one elbow.  “You know you can - “

“Favs, if you tell me I can go back without you, I’m going to punch you in the mouth,” Lovett says without malice.  “You go, I go.”

Jon is kissing Lovett hungrily before he’s even finished talking.  They’ve been within ten feet of each other all day and Jon still feels like he’s been _missing_ him, missing the taste and touch and sound of him.  He pulls away and lays hot kisses down Lovett’s jaw, his hands painting brushstrokes down his chest and sides.  He moves further down the bed and takes one of Lovett’s nipples between his teeth, gently tugging it before sucking it into his mouth.  Lovett groans, his hips bucking off the bed.

“Shh,” Jon says softly, pressing Lovett’s hips down and continuing to pepper kisses to his chest and stomach.  He stops at Lovett’s bellybutton and dips his tongue into the little hole, just to hear Lovett choke.  Jon sucks a bruise into his stomach, biting down softly.  He’s overcome by the need to possess Lovett, consume him.  His hands are greedy, pressing Lovett down one moment and curling under to squeeze his ass the next, running up his sides to pinch his pert, pink nipples.  Lovett is whining and shifting under his hands, chasing the contact.

Jon licks a wide stroke across Lovett’s hipbone as he pulls down his boxers.  He teases the soft skin around Lovett’s crotch - kissing and nibbling at the translucent pale skin at his hips, the warm meat of his thighs.  He pushes Lovett’s knees up and ducks under his hard, untouched cock, spreading Lovett’s cheeks and licking a warm stripe directly over his puckered hole.  Lovett shouts, his hips lifting from the bed and his hands clenching in the bed sheets.  

“I said, quiet,” Jon grins, resting his chin on Lovett’s thigh and running a warm hand up his stomach.  He considers Lovett’s cock for a moment, enjoys the sight of it, a little precum forming on the tip.  He can feel Lovett watching him, willing him to take him in hand or suck him down.

Instead, Jon rolls away long enough to dig the lube out of his bag, then grabs Lovett by the ankles and yanks him to the end of the bed, his ass on the edge.  Jon pushes Lovett’s knees up to his chest, bending his legs in half.  Without any further warning, he pushes two lubed fingers into Lovett’s hole.

Lovett shouts, his entire body jerking under Jon.  “Shh, baby,” Jon whispers, bending over to kiss him.  He kisses Lovett gently, sweetly, in complete contrast to the three fingers now roughly fucking his hole.  “You’re so good, god, look at you,” he says against Lovett’s lips, his free hand coming up to cup his face.  “You can take another finger, right?” he asks, already pushing the tip of his pinky finger into Lovett.

Lovett nods, his face flushed and sweaty.  “I can, I can take it,” he gasps, staring up at Jon, his eyes wet.  Jon swells with pride as he pushes all four fingers up to the second knuckle.  Lovett whimpers, his head turning to the side and his eyes squeezing shut.  They’ve never taken this all the way, Lovett’s never taken Jon’s fist, but Jon knows he wants to try someday.  Wants to see Lovett take him up to his wrist, accept Jon’s invasion completely.

Not tonight, though.  Jon is already pulling his fingers out and slicking up his cock, then sliding into Lovett in one smooth thrust.  They both moan, tears leaking from Lovett’s eyes as Jon starts to move.  Jon leans down to kiss Lovett’s cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears and sweat.  

Lovett runs his hands up Jon’s arms and shoulders, turning his face up and claiming Jon’s lips in a slow kiss.  They kiss lazily, sharing breath and murmuring to each other as Jon continues to move inside Lovett.  Jon pins Lovett’s wrists above his head with one hand, the other reaching down to wrap around his cock.  The image is intoxicating, Lovett stretched out, twisting under Jon’s hands, his skin pink and flushed from his face down to his cock, which is leaking into his fist.  

“God, you’re beautiful,” Jon gasps, and seconds later he’s coming, pushing deep inside Lovett.  He pulls out, reaches out to push the come back inside Lovett’s hole as he continues to jerk him off.  He pushes a finger inside Lovett and strokes along his prostate, and then Lovett is coming with a cry, Jon stroking him through it.

Jon manhandles Lovett up the bed and under the covers, wrapping around him.  He watches Lovett fall asleep, his face relaxing and his breath evening out.  Someday, he thinks.  For now, it will have to be enough.


End file.
